Shattered
by Kyra4
Summary: Taken by the enemy and thrown into adjoining cells, Jane & Gunther discover a small opening in their shared wall, just enough to allow them to clasp hands. But being able to hear, even *touch* a loved one without being able to protect them from harm - Gunther soon discovers it's equal parts blessing, and soul-shredding curse. Written for Janther Week, Day 7: Prompt, Tolstoy quote.
1. Chapter 1: Hands

_A/N: This is a Janther Week fic, written in response to the prompt for Day 7, which was the following quote: "He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking." – Tolstoy, Anna Karenina_

 _I found it particularly challenging to conceptualize this quote into a fic, but luckily the prompts encourage open interpretation because wouldn't it be boring if we all wrote the same thing!_

 _THAT SAID, this PARTICULAR fic carries HEAVY AND I DO MEAN **HEAVY** warnings for angst, mature subject matter, and trigger warnings in later chapters. It is, in my own opinion, the angstiest thing I've written for this fandom. There is nothing graphic, but as you can probably guess from the summary, the implications are bleak. **Believe me** when I say that it's a dark ride; I'm making this disclosure for a reason. Additional warnings in future chapters as warranted; rating may change at some point._

 _This is chapter 1 of 13. Will be updated every few days until complete._

* * *

 **HANDS**

* * *

It's Jane who figures out that there is a way they can reach each other. Of course it is. It wouldn't be him; he is too wholly panicked – _swamped_ with it, nearly out of his mind.

Because they've been captured, and they've been separated, and he's no good without her, she is the best part of him, without her he's helpless, he's… lost in the dark.

 _Very literally_.

But they are, at least, thrown into adjoining cells and Jane, with characteristic resourcefulness, explores the confines of her prison by touch alone and thus discovers the little opening in their common wall.

It's down at floor-level, near the corner; only the size of a single missing stone. Gunther can't tell if it's an intentional part of the cells' design, for ventilation perhaps, or if it was somehow created by the long labor of some former occupant – and really, it hardly matters.

What matters is that, small as the aperture is, once Jane calls his attention to it from the other side of the wall, it allows them at least some modicum of contact with each other.

* * *

There's a tiny, barred window set high in his cell's single exterior wall, but it's night when they're shoved into their new… accommodations… and so as a light source, the window is useless. He follows her voice, though, and dropping to his knees, gropes for – and finds – her hand where there should only be stone.

He grabs on instantly and _hard_ – a drowning man who's been thrown an unexpected lifeline. He realizes that he's probably hurting her – he almost _has_ to be hurting her – and tries to make himself ease off a bit, but he can't, he just… can't. And maybe that's all right because Jane, for her part, twines her fingers through his and holds on just as tightly.

Her hand is warm in his – small, but strong. Long fingers, short nails. Callouses that he knows by heart. Scabs both old and new – a _lot_ of new ones, given that they've spent the past fortnight engaged in heavy combat.

He loves her hands.

He loves _her_ , although he's never actually told her so.

He's tried to; he's _started_ to. More times than he can count. But the words just choke off to nothingness; die in his throat.

Surely if there were to _be_ a time, this would be it. He opens his mouth, fully intending to lay it all on the line at last, but what comes out instead – to his own _genuine_ surprise – is a gravelly, "are you all right?"

What a ridiculous, pointless, _asinine_ question. _No_ she's not all right, for _God's sake_. Neither of them are all right; they're likely both as good as dead.

Jane makes a small sound in her throat; without seeing her, he can't tell whether it's a laugh or a sob. Or maybe a little of each. "Bruised up some," she says, "but intact." Her voice is unsteady, almost as hoarse as his. She's frightened – _terrified_ – he can hear it as clear as day. She's holding herself together, though, by sheer force of will.

"You?" she asks.

"I have had better days," he says, trying for a bit of levity, falling spectacularly short. He feels Jane's fingers tighten further about his own.

"Gunther –" her voice sounds _very_ constricted now – "can we stay like this a while?"

"Yes," he croaks. "Yes, we can."

* * *

"Do you have a window?" he asks.

An indeterminate number of hours have passed, and his voice is cracked with disuse. He's slumped in the corner and has been drifting fitfully in and out of sleep, his hand still linked in Jane's. Weak, grey light is filtering down, now, from his own small window. He hopes Jane has the same "luxury" – it kills him to think of her locked in full darkness.

"Window…?" It takes several seconds for her to answer, and when she does her voice sounds fuzzy, disoriented. He realizes she must have been asleep too, and more deeply than himself, by the sound of it. He's sorry to have woken her. The oblivion of sleep has _got_ to be preferable to the reality they now face.

Another pause, then, "I do… not think so," she says.

And a little piece of his heart cracks.

"Can you see _anything?_ "

"...No."

Gunther groans.

"I can feel _you_ , though," Jane says, "and that is enough for now."

"Jane –"

"It is. It is, Gunther. Because it has to be."

He can think of nothing at all to say to that. He simply tightens his grip.

* * *

"This is… just _terrible_." It's Jane, now, who is apparently trying to lighten the mood.

More hours have passed; the daylight from Gunther's window, never strong to begin with, has faded to almost nothing. Several minutes ago they'd heard footsteps in the corridor and by mutual, unspoken agreement had both scrambled away from the little opening in their common wall. There's no way of knowing whether their captors are aware of its existence or not; but Jane and Gunther are _certainly_ not going to risk calling attention to it. That could potentially result in them being separated further, and…

That can't happen. Can't. _Can not_. Gunther's sanity has already slipped by at _least_ one full notch since being thrown in here; if he loses his contact with Jane…

It doesn't bear thinking about.

But their secret – if it even _is_ a secret – is safe, for the time being, anyway. Neither of them are anywhere near that particular corner when their cell doors clang open and their – _supper_ , if this abhorrent slop can actually be called such – is set inside.

After retrieving the hunk of stale bread, bowl of what he supposes must be some kind of absolutely heinous stew, and jug of brackish water, Gunther had returned to his position in the corner; as had Jane. And now she's trying to make light of the situation and _God_ he loves her for that –

Loves her so much that he _aches_ with it.

Jane makes an exaggerated gagging sound and Gunther finds himself cracking a tiny smile in the darkness, despite _everything_.

"Eat it," he tells her. "All of it. _Make_ yourself, Jane. We have to keep our strength up if we can."

"Disgusting," she says flatly – but she eats it. And so does he.

* * *

"What do you think Pepper made for supper tonight?"

Gunther opens his eyes. They had finished their sorry excuse for a meal some time ago and he's been… just drifting, since. Not sleeping, not really even dozing. Just drifting.

"Do you –" he swallows – "do you really want to torture yourself that way, Jane?"

"Not torture." Her voice is musing; distant. "It is an escape. _Home_ is… an escape." She pauses, then adds, "they are safe there. Happy."

 _Are they?_

Gunther wonders. But he's certainly not going to sabotage Jane's coping mechanism, if that's what this is, by saying so. Never, never in life.

For him, thoughts about what Pepper may have made for supper in the warm, familiar, yeast-scented castle kitchen _are_ on the torturous side – but he plays along anyway, for Jane's sake. At the end of the day – _at the end of their lives?_ – there is almost nothing he wouldn't do for her.

He closes his eyes again. "Um… vegetable soup to start with. The kind that lizard of yours is so fond of."

"That crusty bread she bakes," Jane supplies, "hot enough to burn your fingers."

At the mention of fingers, he seeks hers out with his own; finds them; closes his hand around them. He thinks he hears her give a little sigh.

" _Slathered_ with fresh butter," he adds. "More butter than bread."

"Careful, Sir Gunther," Jane says dryly. "No making yourself fat, now. I expect you to still be in fighting form when we are able to resume our sparring."

It's such a wholly unexpected comment under the circumstances that it surprises an actual laugh out of him… although it's a poor, strangled little thing. Jane squeezes his hand; starts stroking the back of it absently with her thumb.

"Roast chicken," she says.

"Spiced cider."

"Dessert?" Her voice is almost dreamy now.

"Berries and cream," he answers, naming not _his_ favorite dessert, but hers.

"Mmh." She hums approvingly, but says nothing more. A few minutes later, her hand stills.

"Jane?"

No response.

Asleep, then.

"Jane, I –" _love you_ , he almost says, but he clamps down on the words before they can spill free.

What's the point?

She can't hear him.


	2. Chapter 2: Dancing

**DANCING**

* * *

"Do you think they are looking for us?"

It is, as closely as Gunther can tell – which really isn't very closely at all – mid-morning. His window has been shedding faint light on him for at least – he thinks – two to three hours now, and some time ago their doors had banged open again, allowing for small bowls of thin, watery gruel to be shoved inside their respective cells.

It had been all he could do to choke it down, even as hungry as he was. Jane had offered no commentary on the quality of this meal, nor had she responded when he'd asked her if she'd eaten it.

Which had worried him deeply.

He is _still_ worried deeply.

"Yes, Jane. _Yes_ , they are looking for us," he says now, with all the surety he can muster.

She sinks back into silence for a long time. Then – "do you think they will find us?"

"Yes," he says again… but not quickly enough. There's a trace of hesitation there because _hell_ , he _wants_ to believe they'll be rescued somehow – of _course_ he does –

But wanting to believe it and _actually_ believing it, in his heart of hearts, are not the same thing.

So he takes just a second too long to answer, and he knows – he _KNOWS_ – that Jane wasn't listening for _what_ he said, she was listening for how he said it.

And he's failed her.

 _God DAMN it_.

He tips his head back against the stone wall, sick with himself. "Jane –"

"It is all right," she says quietly. Her voice is like lead.

"We _will_ get out," he says desperately, groping for her hand and wrapping it in his own. Empty words, but God, he has to say _something_. She doesn't pull away from him, but she doesn't return his squeeze either. "Jane? We will."

"...I know," she replies. But this time the hesitancy is hers.

* * *

"Jane? Jane, get up. You need to walk."

Gunther has been pacing the perimeter of his cell like a caged animal; an endless circuit, around and around, for what he thinks must be a couple of hours at least. It is – he reckons – the afternoon of their third day of captivity. Or maybe their fourth.

God, but it's getting hard to keep track.

"Jane." He goes and hunkers down in what he's mentally come to term _their corner_.

" _Jane._ "

He's hardly been able to coax a word out of her all day. She's right there – only a wall away from him – but he feels like he's losing her somehow, his worry ratcheting up and up as the hours pass. He can't lose her.

He _can't_.

Hands dangling between his knees, he lets his forehead fall against the cool, rough stone. Takes a shaky breath, tries to get a handle on his anxiety, his fear.

"Jane, say something." His voice cracks slightly as he adds, "please."

"Gunther… all right. If you insist. I am up." She sounds like she's been sleeping again, her voice foggy. He hears her mumble something under her breath, and while the words are unclear, the tone is not. He'd bet the next day's gruel that it's something along the lines of "always the bully."

"Did you hear me before? We have to move."

"Move…?" She sounds frankly incredulous, and still slightly disoriented. " _Where_ , Gunther?"

He grits his teeth, frustration surging through him – is she being deliberately obtuse?! But he wills himself calm before he can say something he'll regret. It's not _Jane_ he wants to rage against, it's the situation they're in, this whole sarding, goddamned, bollixed-to-hell _situation_.

He presses his eyes closed, struggling for composure.

"We have to move our _bodies_ , Jane. We cannot just lie down and… give _up_."

He waits for a response; for something, _anything_. Nothing is forthcoming.

"Jane," he tries again, in mounting desperation, "stand _up_. Walk with me. Just for a little while, all right?"

"Gunther –" she seems to be groping for words. "I cannot see anything. _Nothing_ , and…" she trails off for a moment as he mentally kicks himself. _Damn_ it, how could he have forgotten? She has no window – he hasn't been getting _much_ light, but she gets none.

 _None_.

"It is... just so dark," she says then, quietly, almost tonelessly.

 _Defeatedly_.

He wants to cry.

Instead, he keeps pushing her. He has to. He _has_ to.

"Is there anything in there you could trip over? Any furnishings, any debris?"

"...No."

"Then you can walk in the dark. Come on, Jane."

The next time she speaks, her voice comes from standing height. "So what now?"

Sudden inspiration strikes him. He smacks the wall between them. " _There_. Put your hand there. Against mine."

A pause. Then, "all right."

"Hit the wall, so I know we are –" his voice cracks slightly – "touching."

Another pause, then he hears the smack of her palm against the stone. It does sound as if their hands and pretty well aligned.

"Dance with me," he says.

He thinks he hears her breath catch… but it's impossible, really, to tell.

There is yet _another_ pause, the longest so far. Then, "Gunther," she says, "how kind of you to ask."

And they dance. Slowly, carefully at first, but with increasing confidence as the minutes pass, they dance in the dark.

* * *

It is sometime late the next day that things take a drastic turn for the worse.

Gunther's not naive. He'd known, deep down, known from the _beginning_ that the odds their captors would simply leave them _alone_ were small. He'd known it, but it had been too ghastly a truth to examine closely; when his thoughts had started to bend in that direction, he had shut them down.

That way panic lay, and he'd been determined not to give in to panic if he could possibly prevent it. Panic is counterproductive; it can only make things worse. It won't help the situation; it won't help _Jane_.

So after that first awful burst of it when they'd been taken, he'd fought valiantly against the future waves that had tried to swamp him. He'd suppressed all notions of what else could be in store for them; clamping down on them, refusing to even _look_ at them head-on.

But still, he'd known.

He'd known all along, his dread sitting cold and heavy in his gut.

The fact that it comes as no surprise, however, doesn't make it any less horrific when it happens… especially because it's not _him_ that their captors are particularly interested in.

It's Jane. Of _course_ it's Jane.


	3. Chapter 3: Promise

**PROMISE**

* * *

" _NO_ – _!_ "

Gunther comes suddenly, _violently_ awake at the sound of Jane's cry; heart abruptly lodged in his throat, constricting his breathing – and pounding so hard, so hard.

It's an especially jarring, surreal moment because he has no recollection of falling asleep in the first place. When had _that_ happened? How long has he –

And then Jane shouts again, and any semblance of rational thought flees his mind because someone's in there with her and he knows that _this_ is what he's been dreading, it's happening, it's _happening_ , and God no, please _no_.

He's on his feet then, his whole body instantly slick with cold sweat, plunged into fight-or-flight mode, and there's no question – _fists clenched, teeth bared_ – which of those two options he wants to take… but he's utterly, _utterly_ helpless.

He can do nothing at all.

"JANE!" He barely recognizes his own voice, it's so hoarse and frantic, _twisted_ with his fear and fury.

She doesn't answer him, just screams, "Get – _OFF!_ "

Her own voice is constricted now; it sounds like she can't quite get her breath, like something – some _one_ – has thrown their weight onto her, pinning her, _crushing_ her, and then he hears fabric ripping, and without any further thought at all he's hurling himself at his cell door, throwing the entire weight of his body against it, slamming it with his shoulder over and over again, and it doesn't so much as budge but he can't stop, he _won't_ stop trying –

He has to reach her, he _HAS TO REACH HER_ –

A dull, sick crack from Jane's cell brings him up short, panting; it's immediately followed by a harsh, decidedly _male_ shout of pain, and a muffled string of curses.

Gunther, suddenly still, listening hard, hears the sound of Jane's body slamming against the wall; her pained exhalation as whatever bit of breath she had left is knocked soundly out of her.

"Oh you little _bitch_." The man's voice sounds fuzzy, indistinct; _wet,_ somehow. And what was that awful _crack_ a moment ago? What did Jane do to him?!

And more importantly – Gunther is awash in horror – what is he going to do _her_ in retaliation?

 _That_ question is answered a second later as Jane's attacker snarls, "this _could_ have stayed just between us – our little secret. You do me a favor, I do _you_ a favor – we mighta been great friends, the two of us."

Gunther's stomach turns over; he feels like he's going to be sick.

Jane makes an awful, choked little sound; is she being held by the _throat!?_ Gunther actually staggers a bit where he stands.

"But now," the brute continues, "well, _now_ I get the feeling you may not like me very much –" his words are punctuated by another little gasp from Jane that nearly drives Gunther to his knees – "so you know what, little girl? I ain't feeling inclined to do you any favors when it comes to the other fellas _after_ all." His voice drops low, becoming nauseatingly intimate as he says, "they are _all_ gonna have a turn with you. And I will have _two_ , when I come back."

This horrendous pronouncement is punctuated by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a hard slap and Jane cries out again – _he hit her,_ Gunther thinks, almost dully now; he's _dizzy_ with the force of his own powerlessness.

Then heavy footsteps are receding to the door of Jane's cell. It grates open, only to clang shut with a terrible, grim finality.

It takes Gunther a second to shake himself out of his horrified immobility – he's almost _stupefied_ by the awfulness of what has just happened.

And the fact that it's not over yet. If Jane's attacker can be believed, it hasn't even really _begun_.

He hears a soft scraping noise followed by a thud; Jane sliding down the rough stone wall, collapsing to the floor.

That is what yanks him out of his torpor. _Real_ quick.

" _JANE!_ " He throws himself toward the sound and it's killing him, it's _killing_ him, they are inches apart, _inches_ , but he can't reach her, can't comfort her, can't check her for injury, can't _protect_ her –

Can't do anything, _anything_.

He hits his knees, hands pressed flat against the stone that separates them. "Jane." He almost groans her name, so great is his despair.

For a span of seconds there's nothing from her side of the wall at all – then she takes a deep, gasping, shuddery breath. And another. And _another_. It sounds like she's pulling air in and in, and not releasing _any_ of it – her breaths piling up all atop each other.

She's _not_ breathing, not really. Not at all. She's hyperventilating. And the sound of it is tearing him to pieces, hurting him in an almost physical sense.

" _Jane_." He can clearly hear the panic in his own voice, the panic that he's fought _so hard_ to keep at bay, that he's managed to fend off for days – that battle is over now, though. The panic has won, it's taken hold, it's swallowed him whole. "Jane, _breathe!_ JANE! JANE, _BREATHE!_ "

But she isn't. She _can't_. She sounds like she's _still choking_ , and…

And he realizes that she _is_. She _is_ choking, she's choking on her tears. She's crying, _Jane Turnkey_ is _crying_ and the sound, the very _idea_ of Jane crying is so inherently foreign to Gunther it takes him a solid minute before he truly even grasps what exactly it is that he's hearing.

It's not _just_ crying either, no, nothing even remotely so... _decorous_ as that. Jane is _sobbing_ ; great heaving, convulsive sobs that seem in danger of shaking her apart. Broken, hitching, _jagged_ – they sound like they're causing her actual pain; her whole _body_ must be cramping with the force of them, she's crying so hard.

 _I have to calm her down_.

The thought cuts through his own panic. He's got to reach her somehow; he's _got_ to. She can't afford to expend all her energy this way. If she keeps going like this – at _best_ she'll dehydrate; at worst, she'll make herself literally sick – end up expelling what small amount of food she's managed to force down over the past few days.

"Jane. Jane. _Jane_." Hands balling into fists against the stone. "Jane! Breathe. You _have_ to breathe. Make yourself – Jane! Jane, _please_ – JANE!"

Over and over. Her name, just her name. Willing her to hear him, to come back into herself, to stop, oh God please stop just _stop_ , this is shredding him.

But she doesn't seem to even register him in her all-consuming despair.

It's probably the twentieth time he says her name, his voice breaking on its single syllable, that he realizes he's crying too.

* * *

Silence.

He'd thought nothing could be worse than those gut-wrenching sobs, but he'd been wrong.

 _So_ wrong.

The silence she descends into afterward is fifty times worse, a hundred. It _rings_ in his ears; it's huge and terrible, separating them as effectively as the cold, pitted stone of their shared dungeon wall.

Worse still is the knowledge that she didn't come to this silence as a result of reasserting any sort of control over herself. She had sobbed herself _out;_ this is the quiet of complete and total exhaustion, exhaustion in every sense – physical, mental, emotional, _spiritual_.

She is drained dry.

"Jane." His voice is cracked around the edges. Just like his sanity, just like his heart. But he'll keep trying, throwing words into the silence like stones into fathomless depths of dark water.

With about the same results.

 _Jane, are you all right?_

 _How did you fight him off?_

 _Where did he hit you?_

 _Are you bleeding?_

 _He did not_ – _actually_ – did _he…?_

 _Just tell me you are all right._

 _Jane,_ say _something. JANE._

 _At least will you give me your hand._

 _God, Jane, please. Jane,_ please.

Except - actually - when he really examines it, he hasn't spoken after all. These are all the questions, the _entreaties_ , that are clamoring in his brain, demanding answers, reassurances - but although he'd intended to voice them aloud, the silence has swallowed them all. Swallowed them, _obliterated_ them, before they could even leave his lips.

He opens his mouth to remedy that now, but what comes out instead, what falls into the void, is, "Jane, I _love_ you."

He waits for a response, but there is none.

Listening hard, he realizes that she's fallen asleep… or at least, he thinks she has. The quality of her silence is subtly different; her breathing has evened out, deepened, lost those heartbreaking catches and hiccups.

Gunther drops his face into his hands and says it again, muffled now.

"I love you, Jane. So much, you can...cannot know. So much."

* * *

"Gunther."

He'd fallen asleep stretched out beside the wall, with his hand in the empty space where that missing stone ought to be. He wakes up, blearily, to feel Jane's small hand wrap around his own.

It's pitch black; no light from his window at all. He thinks it is the dead of night. He raises his head an inch or so from where it had been cushioned on his arm; gives it a slight shake in an attempt to clear it.

"Juh...Jane?" he mumbles.

"I am sorry." Her voice is barely more than a whisper. It sounds scraped raw. She swallows hard. "You… earlier… you were... nuh...not supposed to hear that."

 _Christ_. Every time he thinks he's reached his quota for agony, that he can't possibly hurt any worse than he is already, he's proved wrong.

She's _apologizing_ to him? _She's_ apologizing to _him!?_

He can barely form words.

"It is –" he twines his fingers through hers, trying to get a handle on himself. "It is _not your fault_ what he did. You know that, right?! Tell me you _know_ that."

She takes a little, double-hitching inhalation - then releases her breath in an awful, bitter, humorless chuff of laughter. "Oh no," she says, "not _that_. I meant when I… all of the c… crying."

" _God_ , Jane."

"You will not tell anyone, will you?"

Gunther opens his mouth, manages to produce only an inarticulate, raspy croak; closes it again. His eyes are burning in the darkness; it feels like something large and jagged is lodged in his throat. Because she _isn't_ talking about the crying, not really. No. She's seeking assurance that if – _if_ – they ever leave this place alive, he will keep her inevitable rape to himself.

Can someone _die_ of a broken heart?

" _Promise_ , Gunther."

He swallows thickly. Tastes bile. Tries to galvanize himself into speech. Cannot. What is one supposed to _say_ to a request like that?

 _I would give anything to prevent it, Jane, anything. I would pay with my life if I could. I would pay with my_ soul.

He buries his face in the crook of his arm, clenching his hand – the one that's not linked with Jane's – in his hair, hard. Hard. He's the one, now, that has gone silent to _her_ inquiries.

Ironic, that.

" _Gunther!?_ " Desperation is mounting in her tone. It sounds like she's starting to edge back toward hyperventilation. "Gunther, _please!_ "

He squeezes her hand and chokes out the words she needs to hear.

"I promise."


	4. Chapter 4: Liar

**LIAR**

* * *

Morning. What day is this? Their fourth in captivity? Fifth? Could it be their _sixth?_ He doesn't think they've been here _that_ long... but he's not entirely sure anymore. He's losing track of time.

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Jane's hand, still linked in his own. His eyes first narrow, then widen, and then he's pushing himself up onto his elbows, his breath suddenly coming faster, harsher – pulling her hand toward him for a closer look.

Because it's crusted with dried blood, blood that's flaking off, now, under his fingertips.

"Gunther…?" Jane's voice is hazy with sleep.

" _What happened!?_ " he demands, his voice sharp, _too_ sharp, but oh, what fresh hell is this!?

"Gunther, what –?"

"Your _hand!_ It is covered in blood, Jane!"

"Wha… no. Not mine." She tries to pull her hand back, but he just strengthens his grip. "Gunther – that _hurts!_ Stop, it is not _mine!_ "

He barely registers her words. Or no, that's not entirely true. He registers them, and he _wants_ to believe them, but he has to see for himself.

He scrabbles for his water jug, finds it – their water supplies had been swapped out when they'd gotten their supper last night, and it's still almost full – and splashes a bit of the liquid over their joined hands.

It's cold – _shockingly_ cold – and Jane, who'd had no warning, gasps and tries to yank free again.

"Jane, just… hold on," he mutters, almost feverishly, wholly occupied by what he's currently doing, which is rubbing at her skin, wiping the now-diluted blood away.

And she's right. _Thank God_. He can see no evidence of actual injury at all.

Relief floods him. He's shaking with it. He lets his forehead fall against their linked hands. "Then what," he manages, "where did –"

But then she really does jerk away. "Gunther," she hisses, "they are _coming!_ "

He shoots up onto his knees; she's right – footfalls outside their cells. He'd been so intent on his examination that the sound hadn't even penetrated his awareness.

 _At all_.

And that is _very_ unsettling.

He scrambles away from their corner; hears her doing likewise. Then he rolls up into a crouch, his entire body tense, lips pulling back from his teeth in a silent snarl. He looks _feral_ in this moment, not quite entirely _human_. He is positioned to launch himself straight at the cell door.

He's just come to a decision, without any actual conscious thought whatsoever, that as soon as that door is fully open he will hurl himself at it and through it, no matter what is waiting on the other side.

He has to. He _has_ to try and win their way free. After last night – _he's got to get them out of here_.

He's got to get _JANE_ out of here.

He's ready.

But the opportunity doesn't come.

The door opens no more than three inches, a hunk of hard bread is tossed inside, and it slams shut again before he can even process the fact that his chance has been yanked away from him.

A handful of seconds pass, his heart slamming against his ribcage, his breath rasping in his ears. Then, the rush of adrenaline already dissipating, he hears the footsteps retreating along the corridor.

That strikes him odd, but it takes him a moment to puzzle out why. Then he realizes; they never opened _Jane's_ door at all.

He stands up, not entirely steady on his feet. Goes and retrieves the stale bread they'd left him; returns to their corner.

"Jane?"

Nothing for a moment; then her voice, sounding as shaky as he feels.

"Right… right here, Gunther." He hears her fold herself back into a sitting position on the other side of the wall. Her voice is incredibly bitter and… so _small_ somehow... as she adds, "where else would I be? Where could I possibly _go?_ "

"Jane, we –" It's on the tip of his tongue to repeat his earlier reassurances that they _will_ make it out of this waking nightmare, that they'll be all right, that they'll see home again - but he stops himself. She didn't believe it then; she won't believe it now.

He doesn't believe it himself.

"They did not give you any breakfast," he says instead.

"No. They must be punishing me. For…" she trails off.

"Take mine." He pushes his bread through the gap in their wall.

"Gunther –"

"I am not hungry anyway."

A pause. Then, "you _used_ to be a convincing liar, Gunther Breech. What happened?"

He makes a sound that might, under other circumstances – _vastly_ different circumstances – have almost been a laugh. "Must be the company I keep. Just eat it, Jane."

She's silent for another moment; then, finally, when he's about to urge her again, she says, "all right."

"Jane?" he asks several minutes later, "did you?"

"Did I wh – oh. The bread. Yes Gunther, I ate it."

He presses his eyes shut against the sudden sharp prickle of tears. " _You_ have always been a _terrible_ liar, Jane Turnkey."

Another brief pause, then "yes," she says quietly, "I suppose I have."

* * *

"– so drunk that he stepped directly _in_ the fire, Jane – and not five minutes after he had _begged_ me to help him unlace his boots. Thank God I refused, and he was too sotted to do it himself. You should have _seen_ his face – he sobered up pretty quickly after that."

He's been telling her stories – aimless, rambling tales such as this one about various shenanigans of knights they both know – for hours now, trying to distract her, to prevent her from focusing on the ever-mounting horror of their predicament. He's been talking so long his voice is going rusty; wracking his brain for suitable, lighthearted anecdotes to share.

And, he's becoming increasingly certain, accomplishing absolutely _nothing_ in the telling. He doesn't think she's listening. At all.

She'd offered commentary, even added her own reminiscences, a few times early on… but it's been a very long time, now, since she's said anything at all. Gunther would gladly settle for a simple "mh-hm" at this point – _anything_ , really, to indicate that she's even _there_ – but nothing is forthcoming.

He rakes a hand through his hair, tips his head back against the cold stone. The dankness of this place is sinking into him, settling throughout his body, slowly but surely. A deep, aching cold that has simply become a part of the background noise of his imprisonment; impossible to shake because they have not been provided with so much as a single coarse, moth-eaten blanket.

Nothing. No means to fend off this creeping, insidious chill.

He closes his eyes; scrubs one hand hard down his stubbly face from forehead to chin. Perhaps a different approach will yield better results. He decides to try something a bit more… fanciful.

"Did I ever tell you," he asks, "about my time with the fairy folk?"

No response.

Of course not.

"It was the fairy queen herself who came for me," he says, "stealing into my room by night, when I still lived in my father's house. I was, I think… sixteen." He paused for a moment before continuing. "You would think the fae would be beautiful, based on all the tales. But actually, they are not - not truly. Not like –"

– _you, Jane_ –

"Not like one might expect. They are an _idealized_ version of what most people would call beautiful; _over_ -idealized, stretched to the extremes, so that their faces are so… _painfully_ perfect, they are almost impossible to look at. The queen is no exception. She is young for her kind, but compared to _us_ … ancient. Dragon's life is barely a heartbeat of hers. When you have lived that long, well… it is easy to get bored. And very difficult to break free of that boredom, that… _inertia_ … once it seizes you. You need a new plaything every now and then, a means to entertain yourself, if only for a few years. So _this_ queen, possibly having a… questionable sense of humor… chose _me_ to be her fool. I _tried_ to send her after Jester, but... she would have me."

He pauses for a minute; his throat is dry and nearly aching from all the one-sided talking he's been doing. Or maybe he's actually getting sick. It's so cold in here.

So cold.

He takes a swallow from his water jug. Cocks his head for a moment, listening. But from Jane's cell, there is only continued silence. He wonders if she's even awake. He resumes the story though, improvising as he goes; he can't think of anything else to do.

"The thing that you have to understand though Jane, is that when you have lived that long, time itself slows down, and everything around you seems to move faster. To her – to _them_ , the fairy folk – I imagine our movements are like the buzzing of bees. Almost too fast to track, almost… frantic in pace. As her new court performer, this… put me at something of a disadvantage. Still, I did my best, and I think I was a novelty to them… for a time, anyway. Lucky for me I had had so much opportunity to watch Jester cavort about the castle over the years… I simply borrowed from his repertoire, and… I like to think I added my own modest improvements here and there. I suppose they must have liked me well enough, too, because they kept me for over a hundred and forty years… although, since they exist outside of time as we know it, not even a whole night passed in this world while I was there. In the end, though, it did not work out. There was just too much… disconnect… between performer and audience. They were so… _still_ , Jane. It was like playing to a grove of trees, or… or a circle of standing stones. It was impossible to gauge their _reactions_ , to know whether they were smiling, or frowning, or… or nothing, nothing at all. It was nerve wracking. The queen eventually realized I was unhappy, and took pity on me and brought me home. She left me in my bed just as dawn was breaking. Only a few hours had passed in Kippernium. I rose, I dressed, I went to the castle. Begged some breakfast from Pepper, and then sparred – with you. So you may think it was all just a dream, but she left me a token so I would know it was not. I wonder if you can guess what it is?"

Maybe _this_ will evoke some sort of response, he thinks; it's the kind of direct challenge that Jane can't _resist_ rising to meet.

Except apparently, this time, she can. Her silence is unrelenting… and it's breaking his heart.

"Well, never mind," he says. "I will show it to you when we get home, if you like, and… and for God's sake, say something. _Anything_ , Jane."

For a moment more there's nothing, then – "I am very sorry to inform you of this, Gunther, but it seems you wasted nearly a century and a half of your time. Because despite what had to have been a prodigious amount of practice, you are certainly no more entertaining now than you were at sixteen."

He takes a shaky breath; actually drops his face into his hands for a brief instant before he can compose himself enough to frame a reply.

" _There_ you are," he manages at last.

"Did you sing for her?" she asks him a little while later. "Your fairy queen?"

"Sometimes."

"Will... you sing something for me?"

He takes a shuddery breath. Sing? He feels like he can barely _talk_ any longer. His voice is rough around the edges, now, to the point where it's as if he has something sharp lodged in his throat. He wouldn't even _consider_ it for anyone else… but then, of course, this _isn't_ anyone else.

This is Jane.

So he takes another gulp of water in an attempt to soothe his throat. And then he starts to sing.

* * *

 _A/N: If you want a break from perpetual angst, check out the story I'm co-authoring with lareepqg. It's called The Sellsword, it's a modern-AU Janther romance, much lighter in tone than this and about get rather citrusy soon, if you take my meaning ;) -Search for it under lareepqg's author name, as FFN won't let me post a link._


	5. Chapter 5: Pedigree

**PEDIGREE**

* * *

"It does not look like either of us is getting any supper," Gunther observes a while later. The light is fading from his window; on every other day of their captivity they'd received their evening... meal (although that's a term can be applied only in the loosest way) before the light was gone.

Jane makes a small, inarticulate sound of agreement.

"What do you think Pepper is cooking _tonight?_ " he asks. He has no interest, really, in revisiting this game; it was painful enough even when they'd actually _had_ something to eat, as unappealing as that slop had been.

Now, with hunger gnawing at his gut, it's worse still. But he's desperate to get Jane talking again, and he's running out of ideas to try. This worked before; _she_ was the one who'd brought it up in the first place. Maybe it will engage her now.

It doesn't.

"I…" her voice is so quiet he can barely hear it. "I do not…" she trails off.

He pulls up his knees, crosses his arms atop them, and drops his head into the little protected space they make. "Jane, _please_ talk to me," he says – he _begs_ – his voice muffled now. "Please."

She takes in a breath and says, "I am thirsty."

"What?" He raises his head. "You… you have water, right?" Fresh horror washes over him. "Surely they have been giving you _water?_ " Of course, they haven't given her _anything_ today, he knows this. But she must have water left from yesterday, the same as him – _mustn't she?_

"Yes. No. I –" He hears her swallow, hard. "Yesterday, when… when… that was how I stopped him. I hit him. With the jug. It broke."

"Yester… Jane…" He hears again that dull, sick, reverberating crack. Of course; she'd have _had_ to have hit her attacker with something fairly large and heavy, for it to have made a sound like that. How the hell had he not realized it at the time? Too overcome by panic, that's how. He hadn't been thinking clearly. And that had been… it had been late in the day, but there _had_ still been daylight. Faint daylight, like now. So it had been a full twenty-four hours ago.

 _She has been without water for twenty-four_ hours!?

"Dragon's _balls_ , Jane!" he bursts out. "It has been a whole _day_ since… since… why did you not tell me this _before?!_ "

She mumbles something inaudible. It sounds like _she's_ the one with her face buried in her knees now.

" _Jane!_ "

"I just… forgot."

Bright, incredulous anger. "That is _rubbish_ , Jane! You do not _forget_ a thing like _dying of thirst_ – particularly not _while it is HAPPENING to you!_ Tell me what in the _sarding hell_ is really going on. Now!"

He's not in any way prepared for her answer.

Her voice is almost inflectionless; terribly, _frighteningly_ matter-of-fact. "Fine. I did not want to take your resources. Of the two of us, you need it more, Gunther. You are _far_ more likely than I to make it out of here."

"Wh-wha… Jane –" He is utterly stricken by her flat pronouncement; stricken to his core. Speechless.

" _Think_ , Gunther. You may be a dung brain sometimes, but you are not stupid. They brought us here instead of killing us for a _reason_ , and –" he hears her breath hitch – "they see value in both of us, but not the same kind. They are going to ransom you, I am almost sure of it. Your father is the richest man in Kippernium; he has more ready money than the king. They have an incentive to treat you… somewhat decently." She pauses, then says quietly, "they have something else in mind for me."

"No." He sounds _sick_. He _feels_ sick. "Jane, that – no, what – you are at _least_ as valuable as I am; for God's sake, you are _nobility!_ "

"They do not care about _pedigree_ , Gunther, they – if I am right, and I think I am – care about ransom potential. And yours is _far_ greater than mine. No, I think they see me much more in terms of… instant gratification."

And then he's throwing himself at his door again. Kicking it, _hitting_ it, bloodying his knuckles –

Conscious thought has entirely fled him; he doesn't even fully realize what he's doing until Jane's voice reaches him through the fog of his rage and despair. She's shouting at him to stop, _stop_ –

" – Gunther, for God's sake, _STOP!_ It is pointless to hurt yourself that way, you are not going to break down that door, you are likelier to break your _hand_ and you _cannot afford to do that_ , if you _do_ get an opportunity to escape somehow you will need to be whole! _Gunther!_ "

Gasping, _lost,_ he puts his back to the rough planks of the door and slides down it, landing jarringly on the floor. He stays there, panting, for several long moments, trying to reassert even the smallest shred of control over his rampaging emotions.

Finally, his whole body trembling in the aftermath of his outburst, he crawls back over to the corner. The little gap in the wall. _Jane_.

"All right," he says hoarsely. "We have to… to get you some water. Hold on."

His hands are shaking so badly that when he reaches for the jug, he nearly overturns it and renders them _both_ waterless.

He gulps in several deep breaths, attempting to steady himself. Then, "cup your hand," he tells her, and when she complies he pours a bit of water out into her curled palm. It's _so_ little, though – barely a swallow – and already running through her fingers.

And she still has to raise it to her lips.

"Did you get any?" he asks her a moment later.

"...Some," she replies.

But now it's _Gunther_ who is listening not to what she says but to how she says it; and he doesn't like that pause. That pause speaks volumes.

He has to think of something else.

He's so _scattered_ right now, though. He takes several deep breaths, trying to ground himself, but it's no good. His thoughts are all jumbled up; the deepening horror of their situation – of _Jane's_ situation – defeating him.

Accepting defeat is not an option, though. He has to pull himself together, _goddamn_ it.

He's sitting in the corner, with his back to their common wall. Now, without looking, he gropes with his hand; finds the small, empty space that connects their cells. "Jane," he says, "give me your hand. I need… I need you to… anchor me. So I can think."

Several seconds pass with no response and he starts to wonder if she's not going to comply… is she angry with him for scolding her a little while ago? But then she slips her hand into his and his whole body sags with relief. He _needs_ this… this contact.

He needs _her_. God, he needs her so badly.

Her hand is cold. _Really_ cold. He closes his own around it, wondering if there's some way, _any_ way, that he can warm her up… he'll have to think of something, but that – important as it is – is not his priority in this particular moment. Right now he has to figure out how the hell he can get some water into her.

"All right," he says a minute or so later. "I think I… hold on." With great reluctance, he lets go her hand. Then he tugs off his shirt.

"I am going to wet my shirt, Jane," he says. "I think this might work better."

But God's wounds, had he thought he'd been cold _before?!_ Divested of even that one layer of fabric, the freezing dankness of his prison _slams_ him, nearly takes his breath away. He grits his teeth because they immediately want to start chattering, and carefully dips one sleeve into the water jug, saturating it nearly to the elbow. He balls it up and pushes it into the gap.

She pulls it the rest of the way through.

"Jane?" he asks a few minutes later. "Better?"

"Much better, Gunther. Thank you."

They repeat the process twice more, as the last of the light fades from his window, then he struggles back into his shirt. His whole body is shivering now, and although it's a relief to be fully clothed again, his left arm, encased in its sodden sleeve, feels almost numb from the cold.

He rolls the sleeve to his elbow in an attempt to minimize how much of the wet fabric is touching his skin, then lies down along the wall.

"Give me both your hands," he says, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking. "Do you think you can? Maybe we can warm each other up a bit."

It's a tight fit, but they manage to clasp both of their hands together.

"God, you are like _ice_ ," he grinds out.

"You are… huh-hardly one to… talk," she retorts, and he can tell that she's shivering, even though she's trying to clamp down on it, conceal the fact. She must have gotten wet too, wringing the water out of his shirt. Wetter than him, maybe. He tightens his fingers around hers.

"Listen, Gunther," she says a short time later, "if you _do_ get out of here, would… would you –"

"No," he cuts her off, flatly.

"Wh-what?" She sounds bewildered. A little hurt.

" _No_ ," he says again. "I will not. Whatever it is, whatever task or errand you were about to lay at my feet, whatever message you were going to charge me with delivering, the answer is no. I will _not_ tie up your loose ends for you, Jane Turnkey. Because I am not leaving here without you."

He speaks with total finality, with every shred of conviction he possesses. He will never, he _will NEVER_ , leave her behind in here. If he _is_ ransomed, or an opportunity for escape presents itself, he will bring her out with him, or he won't go.

It is just purely that simple.

"Gunther –"

" _I am NOT. LEAVING. HERE. WITHOUT._ YOU."

Silence for a moment. Then she whispers, " _I_ am not sure that choice is yours to make."


	6. Chapter 6: Shattered

_A/N: This chapter, though short, is brutal. Please note that we've reached the point where this story earns its warnings. It was difficult to write and I don't imagine it will be any easier to read. There's nothing at all graphic here_ – _this is told from Gunther's limited perspective, after all_ – _but that doesn't make the content any less serious or traumatic. Understand before reading further that a horrific event takes place and I need to do my due diligence by saying: trigger warnings for sexual abuse._

* * *

 **SHATTERED**

* * *

Gunther drifts in the darkness, the cold.

He fades in and out a bit, but he doesn't truly sleep. He's exhausted, but sleep won't come, nor does he particularly want it to. He just wants to keep holding onto Jane.

Her hands are finally warming, slightly, in his own. His shivering has subsided, and he thinks hers has, too. Maybe his desperate notion that they could warm each other through this limited amount of contact had actually held some merit after all.

And as long as he can keep a firm grip on her, he knows she's all right… as all right as she can be under the circumstances, at least. So he lies there and he holds on. He holds onto her like life itself.

Until they come for her again.

* * *

It's still pitch black when he hears the footfalls, so he knows that their presence has nothing to do with breakfast or any other _legitimate_ reason at all.

No, he understands _exactly_ what they are here for.

An absolute _tidal_ wave of panic crashes over him, heart suddenly feeling as if it's slamming against his ribs, it's beating so hard. He tightens his grip on her to the point where he's got to be crushing her, _bruising_ her, and he becomes aware, only distantly, at a rather extreme disconnect over the rushing in his ears, that someone is muttering "no – no – no, no, _no, NO_ –"

 _Then_ he becomes aware that that person is _him_.

"Gunther. _Gunther!_ " Her voice is little more than a whisper, but the urgency in it cuts through the panicked fog that's overtaken him. She knows too. She is perfectly cognizant of what is about to happen. "Gunther, listen, _listen_ to me."

"Jane," he croaks, and he just wants to pull her through, into his cell with him, where he can push her behind him, where he can _defend_ her… he's not a praying man, he never _has_ been but maybe… maybe if he prays hard enough _now_ , then somehow he'll be able to effect a miracle, maybe the space in their wall will widen just enough to allow it, that's all he's asking for, surely God in His infinite power can do that much, not for Gunther, _no_ , but for Jane - for _Jane!?_ Surely God _has_ to intervene for Jane, Jane is the best, the purest, thing that Gunther has ever encountered in his life and she doesn't deserve this, she _DOESN'T DESERVE THIS_ –

"Gunther!" she hisses again, and then she's wrenching away, she's pulling free, and his hysteria clicks up another notch, and he says her name again but it comes out as a sob. And the footsteps have stopped outside her door and he can hear voices in the corridor - low, guttural voices talking and - and _laughing_ \- and he can't tell how many there are but one is too many, _one is too many_ and he's suddenly fighting the need to throw up; he is _sick_ with fear and loathing and helpless rage.

Her fingers are slipping out of his. "Jane, no," he gasps, "do not, do _not_ –"

But now she's actually shoving his hands away.

"Gunther, stop, _stop_ , they have a torch, I can see light under the door, you have to stay on your own side, do you understand me? Get away from the gap, Gunther, we _cannot let them see!_ "

There's a brief pause and he's trying not to vomit, he's trying not to _scream_ , and then her voice comes again, floating down now from above him; she's standing up and he can see her in his mind's eye, wedged in the corner, back to the wall.

"Gunther," she says, and he hears her smack the stone, "Put your hand there, against mine. Hit the wall, so I know… so I know…" her voice catches in her throat; her breaths are piling up. Gunther honestly can't believe she's coherent any longer at all. How can she be so afraid, yet so brave at the same time? He's spent their entire captivity thinking that he was distracting her, that he was the one being brave for them both. But that couldn't be more wrong. The truth is, _she's_ the one who's been keeping _him_ occupied, she's the one who… who has been his rock, his safe place, all this time, not just during their captivity, but back... back to the very… _beginning_ , and Jane, Jane, oh no, _Jane_ …

Head swimming with horror, Gunther lurches to his feet and hits the wall back, aligning their hands across the inches of stone that separate them. "That we are touching," he chokes out. "Jane –"

"It will be all right," she tells him, holding her voice steady again even though he can tell she's _breathless_ with terror. Comforting him, sweet merciful God, _she_ is comforting _him_ , and Gunther, for a crazy, tilting moment, wonders if maybe he didn't actually _die_ in that last battle, die and get consigned to _hell?_ Because if this isn't hell, he can't imagine what _is_. "Gunther, it will be all right."

He leans his head against the wall and tries valiantly to say something – _anything_ – in response; but all he manages to produce is a croaky, inarticulate sound of utter, abject despair.

Then her door bangs open. Jane has just time to get out, "I _love_ you, Gunther –"

And then his whole world shatters.

* * *

He'll only ever remember the next hour or so in snatches, in fits and starts; a series of surreal, nightmare flashes that are too agonizingly, soul-killingly awful to ever drag into the light or examine closely.

Jane fights.

Hard.

She fights with silent ferocity, with desperate, single-minded intent. Gunther can tell because he hears the blows she lands, the shouts of pain and fury they provoke.

She fights with everything she has, but she can't win. She's outnumbered and unarmed, undernourished and probably half-blinded by the torchlight after so long in the dark, and she _can't win_ , and he's trying to figure out how many of them there are but he can't make his mind work well enough, _objectively_ enough, to discern whether he's hearing two voices or three – God, it couldn't be _four,_ could it? His panic is too great, in his tortured mind it sounds like _twenty_ although ( _oh God please_ ) he knows that can't be so, and everything is jumbled up together and he's shouting, banging on the wall, pounding his fists against the unyielding stone over and over and over again, and –

 _[flash]_

When they slam her head into the wall, Gunther recognizes the sound for what it is, screaming " _NO!_ " so hard that bursts of light bloom before his eyes, igniting in the pitch blackness of his cell, and –

 _[flash]_

That ends the struggle, in any meaningful way at least, and she still hasn't made a sound. There's relative silence for a moment, punctuated only by the tearing of fabric and Gunther's not sure whether it's Jane who's started sobbing "stop, stop, stop, STOP," or _him_ \- but on balance, he thinks that it's him, and –

 _[flash]_

There's a harsh, grunted command; "hold her _still_ , now – STILL I said!" – bleeding _Christ_ , is she even now resisting in some capacity? She _must_ be – and Gunther recognizes the voice; it's the one who came before. And then Jane cries out. She only screams the once. A single, frantic, _anguished_ shriek that echoes in the small space… but it's cut short almost immediately with the sound of a blow – a heavy, a _brutal_ impact, and suddenly Gunther's on his knees without knowing how he got down there, blood running into his eyes from a cut across his forehead, and… and… has he actually been hitting his _head_ on the _wall?_

He's not sure, he can't remember, but he thinks that just maybe he has, and –

 _[flash]_

After that he can hear the men, but there's nothing more from Jane.

Nothing more at all.


	7. Chapter 7: Bully

_A/N: writing this dialogue was_ very _difficult_ _. More painful than writing the scene that preceded it. Many thanks to Laree for stepping in after several agonized stops and starts, "becoming" Jane for much of it, and helping out with this._

* * *

 **BULLY**

* * *

"Jane. Jane I need you to talk to me. Jane, please... Jane? _Please?_ "

He's been trying for… he doesn't know how long. It's still pitch black, the whole _world_ is black, and time has no meaning anymore.

 _Nothing_ has meaning anymore. Unless he can get her to answer him, nothing ever _will_.

She'd thrown up right after they left. He'd heard the ringleader, his voice coming from low to the floor as if he'd been hunkered down beside Jane's prone form; his tone intimate, tender, almost _crooning_ as he said, "sweet dreams, little girl. And don't you worry, we will see you tomorrow... and the next day, _and_ the next." He'd done something that had caused Jane to whimper; a _devastating_ , wounded little sound, the first she'd made in an hour or more, and the others had chuckled approvingly, their heavy footfalls moving across the room.

Then they were gone, her door slamming shut behind them.

There'd been a moment of horrendous silence, and then she'd been retching. He'd heard it with agonizing clarity, had heard her awful, gasping, choked little sobs between heaves.

Each one had driven a fresh spike of anguish through him.

* * *

She's still crying now, but it's nothing like the wild maelstrom of convulsive tears that had taken her a day ago, after she'd managed to fight her first attacker off. This crying is quiet, weak, exhausted, _depleted_ …

This crying is total hopelessness, total defeat, total despair. It's not the worst thing he's ever heard; the worst thing he's ever heard – the worst thing he _will_ ever hear – was that single, cut-off scream.

It _is_ , however, the saddest.

It at least indicates that she's conscious, though. So why won't she _answer him?_

He's said her name a hundred times by now, a hundred times or _more_.

He swallows back a sob of his own. Well, he'll just have to keep trying, that's all. He'll say it another hundred times, two hundred, _five_ – he's not going to stop until she responds.

He can't, he _won't_ , give up on her.

"Jane, can you come to me, can you… follow my voice? Jane, please, if you will not talk to me then give me your hand at least… Jane. _Jane!?_ "

"...Gunther." She no more than breathes his name. If he hadn't been listening so intently, he'd have missed it.

But he doesn't miss it. He lets out a deep, shuddery sigh and says simply, " _yes_."

It sounds like she's fighting to control her own breathing. "Do… have you… uhm…" she breaks off, takes a shallow, hitching breath. "Is it suh… supposed to hu- _hurt_ like that? Or is there some… thing wrong with me?"

Gunther, sitting slumped in their corner, drops his face into his hands and groans.

He's going to kill them. He doesn't know when, he doesn't know how. But if it's the last thing he ever fucking does, _he is going to KILL them_.

"No," he chokes out. "No, Jane, it is not supposed to hurt, and there is nothing – _NOTHING_ – wrong with you. You are –" he has to break off for a second before he can finish – "are perfect."

A brief pause, then, "I have neh-ever… felt… less perfect."

"I believe it enough for both of us. Jane, can you _get_ to me? For God's sake, _please_."

"Nnh... hurts to… move." It sounds like she's panting, breathing at the very top of her lungs.

Gunther becomes aware that his hands are clenched in his hair. Both of them. Hard. "Jane, what did th–" he stops himself. What kind of moronic question is _that_ , he knows perfectly well what they did to her. What he _needs_ to know is –

"Why are you breathing like that? Jane, how… how bad is it?"

"Uhm…" he hears her try to take in a deeper breath; it turns into a gasping little whimper instead. "Have… had bet... better days."

It's what he'd said to _her_ when they were thrown in here. God oh God oh _GOD_ –

"Jane, _focus_. Can you do that? I _need_ you to tell me what… what the _damage_ is."

She gives a little breathy huff, which in any other situation, Gunther would think was a laugh. "Uh…" she pauses, and Gunther can't help but think she's carefully formulating a response that will not send him into another screaming fit, "they hurt my ribs, my... head."

"Too much to move? Too much to –" his voice catches – "to reach me?"

He hears her _try_ to move a little, shift against the bare floor. She makes a pained sound, then suppresses it. "I think it, it may be best if I stay here for... the moment."

How is he supposed to endure this, _how?_ He tries desperately to regroup. "Are –" he has to stop, clear his throat. "Are you bleeding anywhere?"

She's quiet for a time. Assessing? Then, "...yes."

" _Where?_ "

"It – it is too dark to t….ss...sticky."

"You – what?"

"The back of my head – is sticky."

"All right –" ( _kill them, he is going to_ ) – "are you hurt anywhere else? Bleeding?"

"Yes."

Her simple, flat answer nearly doubles him over anew. "Jane, you have to _stop_ it. Apply pressure."

"I do not ...th-hink... that is how it works, Gunther."

"How it…" he echoes her, confused for a moment, his punch-drunk mind trying to tease some sense out of what she's saying. Then comprehension hits, _slams_ into him full force. He opens his mouth to try and frame some sort of response, and finds himself choking on bile instead. He misses the first part of what Jane says next, but that in no way diminishes the horror of what he does manage to catch.

"...making me sleepy."

"Jane, no! _NO!_ " Quite suddenly he's up on his knees again, hands pressed to the wall between them. "Do _not_ go to sleep, Jane, keep talking to me!"

"Why are you yelling?" Jane's voice drops to a low, fading whisper. "Such a bully...always... _were_."

Bright, hot panic explodes through him. He can barely _breathe_ , let alone form the necessary words to keep her – _(stay with me stay with me STAY WITH ME JANE)_ – responding.

"So cold, Gunther." He hears her shift again – rolling onto her side? "So m... _much_ colder now. Hard ...think. I th-think I may... be... guh-oing into shock."

When she pauses to drag in another shallow breath, he can hear that her teeth have started to rattle. Her speech is becoming more and more broken as she shivers harder.

"Wha… what did Sir Theodore say… to do? Fuh...for shock? Gunther? I c-cannot rem…mh..." she trails off for a second, then whispers, "I cuh...can… not think… anym...more."

" _Shock is a condition resulting from injury, or extreme stress to the body. It requires immediate treatment, or it can quickly become more dangerous than whatever trauma first caused it. You should cover the afflicted knight; keep him warm and and raise his legs, and then treat any visible injuries._ " Gunther recites Sir Theodore's lesson by rote, recalling the instructions for both of them. "You need to get warm, Jane. Lie on your back, pull your legs to your chest and, and, and tug your shirt down over them –"

"C– ca… no shirt."

"What… do you mean, _no shirt?_ Even if it is torn you can still –"

"Nnh...no clothes, Gu-Gunther… t...took them."

Gunther's stomach lurches, perilously close to open revolt. No. _NO_. That can't be right, they can't have taken her clothes out of the cell; between the bone-deep chill in these rooms and the state of shock they've plunged her into, that's as good as a _death sentence_ – do they actively _WANT her dead!?_ No, she… she's not making sense, she must just mean they ripped them up, or tossed them in the corner, or… they can't have _removed_ them. They _can't._

"Jane… no… they… that cannot – are you _sure?_ They did not just… throw them aside?"

Jane gives a little breathy laugh. "Sure." her teeth are chattering so hard he can barely understand her. "Ss– ssmelled them...wh-hen ...left."

"I am going to kill them, Jane."

"I know."

And even _that_ is just so deeply and fundamentally _wrong_. She shouldn't be this _passive_ , this easily accepting of his intent to shoulder the responsibility of avenging her. And he _will_ shoulder it – by every saint in Christendom, by the holy and unholy powers alike, HE _WILL_ – but he still wants her to challenge him, to insist that she'll kill them _herself,_ thank you very much. The fact that she's _not_ is just one more indicator that she has no expectation of making it out of her cell alive.

Well, maybe she's resigned herself, but he hasn't. He _won't_.

"All right listen, you have to get to me. This is not a choice anymore, do you understand? Follow my voice and _GET TO ME_ , Jane. Start moving. I have to pass you my clothes, and you have to put them on. Jane, _now_."

"No."

"Wh-WHAT? Jane, I _know_ it hurts, I can-cannot even imagine, but make yourself, you have to make yourself, I _know_ you can reach me."

"...no."

" _JANE!_ "

"I – I will not." Her shivering is worse now, almost convulsive, chopping the words into nearly unintelligible sounds. "Y – you will nuh-need them – more than mh-me." Jane pauses, moaning quietly before starting again. "You – have – to – _live._ "

"Not without you. We have been partners too long. I do not know how. Jane, I do not know _how!_ "

"You'll... learn... Gun...ther... ll'be alright."

" _NO_ , Jane! Christ! Are you out of your GODDAMN M– _mmmh_." He clamps down on himself, chokes his own words off. That's _not_ the route to go, but – _GOD_ – "you are not thinking clearly, for –"

"Do– do not have to _curse_ at me." She takes a shuddering breath. "Rude... Guh-unth... Breech. You need –"

" _YOU!_ YOU, JANE, GODDAMN IT I NEED YOU! YOU JUST YOU JANE DO NOT DO THIS I NEED **_YOU!_** " His hysteria is complete. It's pulling him under, he's drowning, he'll never break surface again. Panting, screaming, fists clenched once more in his hair. She will not make the decision to leave him, will not, she _WILL NOT_.

The idea of her ripped away from him by force is insanity-provoking enough, but that she would consciously _choose_ to leave him alone here? He won't allow that. Never.

NEVER.

"M'sorry," she whispers brokenly. "Ss-so sor...ry, Gunther."

"No! You hear me!? NO! The hell with that, Jane, YOU GET YOUR ARSE OVER HERE NOW, RIGHT SARDING _**NOW!**_ "

"So nuh- _noisy._ I… when you sang to me."

"Wh- _what?_ "

"...pretty."

The sob that takes him then doubles him over to the point that he nearly slams his head into the floor. Losing her, he's _losing_ her, no please God NO –

"Jane, I love you." They come out as little more than a choked gasp, these four small, precious words that he's been carrying in his heart, sitting on, _guarding_ , for _years_. "I love you… Jane… will you come… to me, please? _PLEASE!?_ I..." he takes a harsh, heaving breath. "I… I will sing to you again if you come here. I will… do anything… Jane… anything you... please."

No response.

" ** _JANE!_** "

" – fine... bully."

He yanks his shirt off over his head, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. It gets caught for a moment, the collar ripping as he fumbles with it. He's clumsy in his wild haste to get it to her.

"Mm..here."

Her voice is so close. He lets his head fall against the rock, weeping with relief. Bundling up the fabric, he shoves it through to her. "Put it on right now, Jane, it still has… some heat from me."

There's some rustling as she struggles – he assumes, he _hopes_ , please, please, _please_ – into the garment. It will be overlarge on her but that's all right, that's just fine, _good_ actually – it will cover more of her, hopefully warm her all the better. Then she whispers, "thank you."

"Is it on? Jane, do you have it on?"

He hears her sigh. Then – "You promised, you know."

Her words are clearer now. Can the shirt have made a difference this quickly? Gunther _wants_ to believe it, wants to _desperately_ , but… it just doesn't feel quite right, somehow. Something else is going on. "Jane – Jane, did you get it on? You have to put your knees to your chest, like we talked about, warm yourself up –"

"S'alrght. Not cold anymore."

"Jane, _no_. It is _not all right_ , you have to – _Damn_ it – JANE!"

But she's gone quiet.

"The SHIRT," he tries again. "Jane. Is it _ON?_ " Panic beating in time with his heart because this is _wrong_ , something is very, very wrong here. "Jane, just… yes or _no?_ Jane!?"

"...promised," she breathes.

"All right. Just…" he tries to swallow back the terror, the gut-wrenching desperation. "Just give me your hand, I can… I can tell that way, the sleeves… Jane, reach through. Jane."

There's nothing.

" _Jane!_ "

Silence.

" _JANE!_ " He throws himself flat on the floor, stretched full-length along the wall, and thrusts his hand through the gap, groping, groping.

 _Frantic_.

"JANE ANSWER ME!"

Still no response, but there – _there_. His fingertips encounter hers. Relief and fresh horror burst over him in equal measure because he has her, he has her, thank _God_ , he _has_ her… and yet… he'd thought _his_ hands were cold.

Hers is freezing. _Freezing_.

He tries to find purchase, to get a good grip, but her hand, in addition to being ice-cold, is… God, oh _God_ it's _slick_ , and… he realizes it's blood, what he's feeling is _blood_ and there's no way, no _way_ this time that it belongs to anyone but _her_.

"Jane," he gasps sickly, "grab… grab on, can… you help me? Jane, help me. I need you. Please."

Her hand remains slack in his own.

Straining, reaching, scrabbling, he finally manages to close his fingers around her wrist. "All right," he mutters, and he no longer has any illusions that he's talking to Jane – Jane has abandoned him, she is past the ability to hear – now he's just talking in a last-ditch effort to retain the tattered shreds of his own sanity. "All right, I have you. I have you, now, Jane, I… I will not let go."

He tugs her toward him.


	8. Chapter 8: Lullaby

**LULLABY**

* * *

It's not easy. It requires a good deal of effort because she… she... is… his mind skitters away from the phrase _dead weight;_ he won't, he _can't_ confront that notion head-on.

He yanks once more, wresting her hand into the empty space until he can get a firm grip. Then, shifting position, bracing his legs against the wall, he grits his teeth and _pulls._ The angle is awkward, and he knows he must be scraping her arm against the rough edges of the stone- but he can't stop, _won't_ stop until he can get her closer, closer.

And then he's got her. Her hand, her wrist, even a bit of her arm are through to his side of the wall, and he thinks her shoulder is very nearly wedged against _her_ side of the wall, and if he pulls any more there's a real danger of possibly _dislocating_ it, so he desists at last, panting from his exertion, distantly aware of the tears that are cutting hot tracks down his cheeks.

He twines his fingers through hers and squeezes, willing her, _willing_ her to squeeze back... _Please Jane,_ please _, come on, come on_ … but there's no response, not so much as a twitch. He drops his forehead to their joined hands for a moment, struggling for control because all he really wants to do is start screaming again, but…

That's not a productive course of action.

Breath hitching in his throat, he presses the first two fingers of his other hand against her wrist, searching for a pulse.

At first he can't feel it and, almost frenzied with fear, he digs his fingers bruisingly, _violently_ hard, into the tendons there. He's hurting her, he _must_ be, whether she's conscious to feel it or not, and it kills him, it _kills_ him because she's been hurt enough already, she… she… how much more can she be expected to endure?

But he has to know. He _has_ to.

He presses his eyes closed, holds his breath, stills his shaking body, concentrates harder than he ever has in his life, and…

And it's there. Faint, fluttery and inconsistent, but _there._

Thank God, _thank God._ He's so relieved, so suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful. It swamps him, subverting his rush of adrenaline, making him lightheaded. Had he been on his feet he probably would have fallen, but he's not. He's sprawled out on the cold stones of his dungeon floor, crying freely, pressing his lips again and again to the pulse-point on her wrist... to her palm...

...each bloodied fingertip.

He kisses her over and over, lips brushing her cold skin, and he's had years – _years_ – of imagining and fantasizing and mentally _scripting_ the moment that he'd be able to do this… and he's sick with regret, because this is wrong, _wrong_ , everything about it is wholly and _cataclysmically WRONG_. This – this frozen, black _pit_ , Jane's battered, lifeless body, this is _not_ what he'd imagined. It's as if some mad, cruel, _capricious_ deity has decided to grant his wish in the most twisted, the most viciously, _mockingly_ horrible manner that could ever be devised, and is there any chance, _any chance at all_ that something like that could be true? Because if so, it means he did this, _he did this to her_ –

With a conscious act of will, he forces himself to abandon that line of thought. Nothing lies that way except insanity. He can't go down that route. Jane _needs_ him to keep his head.

Jane needs him.

Having secured her pulse he runs his fingers up her arm, questing, now, for the sleeve of his shirt. Did she manage to pull it on? To get it over her head and around her body in her horrendously hurt and disoriented state? _Please, please._ He's asked for so much in the last few days, in the last few _minutes_ even, but _please_ let her have somehow struggled into it.

There's nothing, though. Nothing but bare, chilled flesh all the way to her elbow… _past_ it. He becomes distantly aware that he's muttering a whole litany of _no_ 's under his breath as he reaches more deeply into the space the connects their cells, searching, searching. He's almost to the point where he can reach no further, and there's still no indication that she's wearing his shirt, or for that matter, anything at all.

"No. _No_." His voice is fevered. "No, Jane, damn you, this is not acceptable, you got it on, you _have_ to have gotten it on, please, oh hells, Jane, _please_."

But she didn't. She didn't get it on and now she's unconscious and freezing to death and there is nothing, _nothing_ he can do about – _NO._ Gunther wholly and flatly rejects that possibility, pushing it aside. He tries again, forcing his arm as far into the opening as the space allows. He has a fleeting thought, right at the edge of his consciousness, that he could very well end up _stuck_ this way if he doesn't stop, but that is the least, the absolute _least_ of his worries. All that matters is Jane. If he loses her, then who cares if he lies here in the freezing dark with his arm wedged in a wall until he dies?

He sucks in a ragged breath and stretches his fingers just a little bit further, a little bit _more_ – and there.

 _There_.

He can feel it, the edge of the bunched-up sleeve. It must have gotten caught when he'd scraped her arm against the stone, pulling it through.

He manages – _barely_ , but he does – to grasp the edge and tug, pulling the sleeve down until it's fully encasing her arm again.

If the sleeve is on, the _shirt_ is on.

He can only hope that she was able to tug it down to its full length, covering as much of herself as possible; that the whole garment is not ruched up the way this sleeve had been. But at least he knows it's on and that's _something_ , something.

Gunther finds himself literally sobbing with relief.

He'd been in tears before, when he'd ascertained her pulse, but these are legitimate _sobs_ ; they wrack his whole body. For a space of several moments he can do nothing but cling to her hand as the force of his crying convulses him on the floor.

When the fit passes, he sets to work on trying to warm her up, what little of her he can reach. He envelops her cold hand in both of his, rubbing it, chafing it, aware of the fact that his own hands are not exactly warm at the moment, but oh dear _God_ , they're warmer than _hers_. He would almost swear the stone floor on which he _lies_ is warmer than her hand, and – there's such _strength_ in her hands, such strength and such skill, such courage and compassion, such determination and indomitable _will_ , and… he can't lose that, he can't, he _won't_.

He needs her too much.

So he tries with every desperate bit of his being to rub the warmth, the vitality, the _life_ back into her, starting with her fingertips and working all the way up to her elbow and then back again, massaging her, blowing on her skin, anything he can think of, anything at all.

And whispering constantly between breaths, "wake up… wake up… wake up… wake _up_."

She doesn't, though. She doesn't wake up and in the end Gunther, exhausted past all endurance, his cheek cushioned on Jane's still palm, falls into a deep and dreamless pit of sleep.

Although before that happens he remembers what he'd promised while trying to coax her over to the corner… and sings her a hoarse, half-choked lullaby.


	9. Chapter 9: Damaged

**DAMAGED**

* * *

Gunther is jerked back to awareness – literally – when Jane is yanked away from him, her hand slipping out from beneath his cheek, causing his face to impact the cold stone floor with a shock and a sudden explosion of adrenaline.

Someone's in there with her again – someone has _hold_ of her – and he'd never even heard them approach!

"No," he croaks, pushing himself up to his knees, "Jane!"

But she's gone and he stops himself, albeit only barely, from reaching after her. Whoever is in there with her – have they _seen_ the empty space that connects the two cells? He's terrified the answer is yes; after all, Jane's whole arm had been through the gap. But on the slight chance that it _wasn't_ seen, hasn't been discovered… he cannot risk giving it away.

"Hand me the torch," someone growls, and Gunther doesn't think it's a voice he's heard before. "It is darker than pitch in here, I almost _fell_ over her. Come on, bring it _closer!_ Hold it up."

No mention of the hole in the wall; apparently it had been too dark for them to tell. Thank God for _that_ much at – but any small shred of burgeoning relief is annihilated an instant later when a different voice interjects, "wakey-wakey, little girl. Time to give us _our_ turns too."

Then he's on his feet and shouting again.

There's a loud bang, and his door abruptly shudders on its hinges. "OY, YOU!" comes a harsh, angry voice. "Shut _up_ or so help me I will run the bitch through!"

Gunther swallows back his cries, choking on his own helplessness. He only catches the tail end of what the other man is saying.

"–king up."

"What?" demands the one who just threatened to run Jane through, and Gunther will take special care when killing _him_.

"I _said_ , she is not waking up. I do not even think she is _breathing_."

" _WHAT?!_ " Footsteps hurrying away from Gunther's door as the man outside returns to Jane's cell, to see for himself.

"Are you deaf or just stupid?" the first one demands. "This li'il girl is _dead._ "

And just like that, the air is gone. Instantly. All of it. Sucked right out of his lungs and he can't seem to replace it, can't get any more _in_ , and his knees unhinge, spilling him sideways into the wall, and –

No. No. _No_ , that can't be right. She has a pulse, he _knows_ she has a pulse, he felt… felt... but how long ago? Sarding hell, how _long_ ago was that?

How long had he been asleep? Could Jane have died, slipped away completely, as he'd slumbered with his cheek nestled into her cold palm? Could she be gone and he hadn't even _noticed!?_

Belatedly, Gunther realizes that faint daylight is falling in through his high window.

Hours.

He must have been out for _hours_.

 _No Jane no no no..._

The room is spinning. Gunther is numb; he's not even cold anymore, he's plunged into a horror so deep, so pervasive, that he's… he's nothing. Without Jane, he's _nothing._ This can't be, _CANNOT_ be the end of her story. Not Jane. Jane is – Jane has _always_ been – more fully alive than anyone else he's ever known. That _can't_ end in this place, in this manner, no.

 _NO_.

"– tellin' you, she's dead," the first man is insisting.

There's a pause, presumably as the other conducts his own assessment. Then, "nah, she ain't a bit dead. I can see her breathing. Lookit her chest."

Gunther hears the sound of a boot scraping against the stone floor. Is one of them kicking her over with his _foot?!_ He hits the wall both-handed, he can't _help_ himself, his lips pulling back in an unconscious snarl. He wants to tear them apart. But one of them, at least, seems convinced that Jane is alive so maybe… maybe…

He seizes frantically onto that tiny sliver of hope. His hands are pressed so hard to the stone that when they curl into fists he breaks two nails. He doesn't even feel it.

"I am _telling_ you," comes the first voice again, "she's _dead._. Deader'n when me Aunt Bess fell in the hayshed and no one thought to go lookin' for a week."

"Huh." the second man just sounds speculative now. "Thought they said they took her clothes with them."

"You know how far into their cups they get on night shift," comes the disinterested answer. Gunther, breathing in short, sharp, furious bursts, can almost _see_ the man shrugging his shoulders. "Musta forgot something. They took her breeches, though, and that's what matters –" there's a horrid, lewd little chuckle before he continues, "easy access."

Gunther grinds his teeth in impotent rage.

"Well?" his companion prompts. "Les' have us a look at what she's got under that shirt."

There's a snort of patent disgust. "WHY? She's dead, and you are _right stupid_ if you think otherwise. Girl is dead as dirt, and I ain't fuckin' no stone-cold corpse."

There's a bit of a pause. Gunther hears one of them scratch and spit. "Well," the second man says then, "les throw her in with her friend. If I'm right and she _is_ alive, he can warm her up for us and we can come back later. If not, stick him with the blame for it. Better him 'n us."

Gunther goes still. Entirely still; not moving a muscle, not so much as drawing a breath. He wonders disconnectedly if even his heart has ceased beating. It feels as if the whole _world_ has stopped, so much - _so much_ \- suddenly hangs in the balance. Are they really going to give Jane to him? Can something so wildly improbable actually be true? If he allows himself to hope and that hope is dashed, any last shreds of sanity he might still possess will be dashed with it.

There's a burst of guttural laughter. It's one of the _cruelest_ sounds he's ever heard in his life. "Maybe _he_ wants to fuck a corpse. Been carrying on enough... seems wrong, somehow, not to let him have his go. Ungenerous."

Another moment of silence spins out before the other declares, "you is _right disgusting_ , you know that?"

"Maybe... but you've a point about shifting the blame. I really _don't_ fancy catching hell for this, do you?"

"Oy, this ain't MY fault!" cries his counterpart, in high indignation. "We just got here! Downright _inconsiderate_ of that lot – they coulda had their fun without ruining her for the rest of us. It's a damn shame - looks like she mighta been pretty, too."

"Never much fancied the redheads, meself," says the first man dismissively. "Although Will said he was almost sure she was a virgin. Bet _that_ felt nice." They're talking about Jane as if she isn't even human, and Gunther wants to rage against that, rage against _them_ , but he keeps his peace. He actually brings up his arm and _bites_ it to keep himself quiet. He cannot afford to make a sound, to do _anything_ that might tip the scales against him as they weigh their options. "Well all righ' then," the man continues at length. "Let's toss her in with 'im like you said. See what happens. Got nuthin' to lose at this point, I guess. Bet you a copper he fucks her."

"He won't never," says the other with authority. "And I can't _believe_ I let you marry my little sissy, mind like a pit o snakes you got. But go on and pick her up, then."

"Not me, this was _your_ idea. You pick the girly up."

Gunther, his entire body taut and trembling, hears a series of scuffling noises, punctuated by a grunt of exertion. "All right, got her," one of the men huffs. "God's _wounds_ , she's cold. Get 'is door open, I don't wanna stand around with her all day. Draining the heat right outta _me_."

Gunther is listening so intently, is so focused on the voices coming through the wall, that when the man bangs on his door he jumps, startled.

"Hey, you. Get back."

Dropping automatically into a crouch, a defensible combat position, he moves quickly to the very back of his cell.

"That's right, all the way back. And you'll be _staying_ there if you know what is good for you – _and_ her. Move an inch and we'll snap her pretty little neck... then no one will have to wonder anymore."

Gunther says nothing but presses himself against the wall, his fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically. He's panting with the sudden adrenaline surge – this could be his chance to escape, to push past the one and take down the other – but what then?

He has no doubt the men will make good on their promise. He wouldn't be able to take them both in time to prevent it. So he can't risk it. He can't risk _her_. Not if there is the slightest chance, any chance at _all_ , that she is still alive.

The door swings open and the first man steps forward, his sword leveled at Gunther's chest. "That's it, you hold still. You'll get your chance b'tween her legs soon enough." He sneers, stepping fully into the small space, then moving to the side to allow his companion to enter.

Gunther feels gut-kicked with horror at the sight that meets his desperate, burning eyes.

The second man has Jane slung over his shoulder, one arm across the backs of her knees, the fingers of his other hand digging, hard, into the flesh of her bare hip, holding her steady against him. She'd managed to get the shirt on but bent nearly double as she is, it doesn't hide much. It's not her nakedness that draws his attention, though – at least, not directly. It's the bruises, the countless, the _myriad_ bruises that mar her pale skin. They are everywhere – from what he can see, which mostly amounts to the lower half of her body, she is _covered_ with them. The flare of her hips, the backs of her thighs, even her knees and ankles. And she's _filthy_ – far dirtier than Gunther himself – covered in grime and blood and other substances he doesn't even want to consider.

The man takes another stride toward him and then, without any warning at all, _heaves_ Jane's limp form off his shoulder. He launches her at Gunther with a grunt and no more care than if she were a sack of oats, or grain, or rotten turnips.

The movement is so surprising that Gunther leaps forward, the man with the sword completely forgotten. He hurls himself into the center of the cell in order to intercept Jane's body before it can slam to the ground – and nearly misses as her shoulderblades collide with his chest in a breath-stealing impact, and the back of her head cracks painfully into his jaw. Her weight staggers him, knocking them back almost to the wall, and he nearly drops her. He catches her under her arms, but she's completely limp and getting a firm grip proves difficult. She's slipping through his fingers, he's losing her _again_.

 _No. I will not._ He squeezes as hard as he can, clutching her against his chest, and is able to arrest her downward momentum before she can entirely slip out of his grasp.

He doesn't even register the men leaving his cell. Doesn't hear the door slam to behind them, the bolt slide home. Nothing – _NOTHING_ – is real anymore except for Jane, solid and heavy and so, so awfully _damaged_ , in his arms.


	10. Chapter 10: Ragdoll

**RAGDOLL**

* * *

He sinks to the floor with her, her back against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, her hair – that wild mass of flaming curls he used to mock, tease her about mercilessly – tickling his nose. Her body, utterly pliant and limp, folds to the cold stones so that she ends up half sprawled, half upright in his arms.

Her head falls away from him, dropping forward as he shifts her and he panics, not wanting to lose that contact, not wanting to lose _any_ tiny point of contact now that he finally has her, he _HAS_ her, he...

And yet – does he really? Is this even Jane, or is this just a… a remnant? A cast-off _shell?_

Laying her down full-length on the dirty floor is the last – the _VERY LAST_ – thing he wants to do... yet the rational part of his mind (which is nearly – but not entirely – overwhelmed) insists that he has to. He wants nothing more than to gather her closer, and closer still, to hold her and rock her and bury his face in the little hollow where her shoulder meets her throat, and never let her go… but he forces, he _forces_ himself to ease her the rest of the way down, slipping a hand beneath her head, shielding it from the rough rock of the cell's bare floor. He feels a tacky wetness on his fingers –

(... _sticky... the back of my head is... sticky_...)

– that damn near drags him under.

But he can't _afford_ to be dragged under.

He has to assess her.

He has to determine, first and foremost, whether she's even alive.

And _if_ she is, he has to catalogue the damage and then address the question of whether there's anything, _anything_ at all, that he can _do_ for her.

His first good look at her would suggest that the answer is, _very little_. It's patently obvious why the two guards had been debating an issue as basic as whether she's alive.

Because she doesn't _look_ alive.

Jane looks dead.

Pressing two fingers against her throat, he feels for a pulse, desperation mounting because it's hard, it's so hard to _tell_. Is he actually feeling that faint thrum? Or does he just _want_ to believe that? If it _is_ there, it's so weak that it's nearly impossible to discern, especially because his hands are shaking, and…

He sucks in a deep, ragged breath and tries to still them, tries to will them calm and steady.

Becomes aware that he's whispering a single word over and over again, under his breath – _please, please, please,_ please – is he begging her, or _himself?_

Or maybe he's begging God, although he feels about a hair's breadth away from renouncing God altogether, because what the _hell_ kind of a God would allow _THIS?_

He can't seem to will his hands steady, though, no matter how he tries, so he bends close over her instead, their faces almost touching, and attempts to determine whether he can feel any stirring of breath on his own cold cheek. But once again, his body betrays him. He's panting with his fear for her, his barely suppressed fury at the people – the _animals_ – who _put_ her in this state, and he can't tell, he can't _tell,_ he can't –

With a choked little cry of frustration, he pulls back a few inches, then cups her cheek in his palm and presses his forehead to hers. "Jane, breathe for me," he whispers, his lips nearly moving against hers. If she _is_ breathing, their breath is mingling, they are so close. "Please, Jane, please… come on, come _on._ "

There is no discernible response. Breath hitching in his throat, he straightens slightly and looks, really _looks_ , at her still face. It's the first good look he's gotten since before they were captured.

And what he sees hurts his heart so badly it's like a physical pain in his chest.

She's _so pale_ , her freckles standing in stark contrast to her ashen skin, each one of them its own tiny exclamation point, _screaming_ just how wrong this entire situation is. Her cheeks are tear-streaked, and there's a blotchy bruise spreading up one side of her face. Right where her jaw meets her throat there's _another_ bruise, smaller, darker, nearly _black_ ; Gunther recognizes it for what it is, a "love mark" that has nothing - _nothing_ to do with love. Her slightly parted lips have taken on a ghastly bluish tinge. The bottom one is swollen; it, and her chin beneath it, are smeared with blood.

 _She bit herself_ , he realizes with fresh horror. It looks like she damn near bit _through_ her lip, most likely in her effort to keep from screaming anymore after her first – her _only_ – cry of pain. In a daze, moving automatically without any conscious thought whatsoever, Gunther licks his thumb and gently wipes the blood away. There are probably – no, there are _certainly_ – a dozen more important things he should be doing right now, but… he's absolutely compelled to do this, to clean her up this little bit, at least.

"Jane," he rasps out as he rubs at her skin, surprising himself because he hadn't intended to speak aloud in this moment, "come back. I do… not know where you have gone, but –" he breaks off, gulps. "I… if our positions were reversed, I doubt I would want to come back either; maybe it is selfish of me even to ask. But… but you… you _know_ me…" his speech is as choppy and distorted as his breathing. "I am a spoilt, selfish _arse_ , you have suh… said… so… _yourself_ enough times. And so I _am_ … asking. I am. Jane. _Jane_ …" his whole body is heaving with the force of his despair. He takes her face in both his hands, framing it, stroking her cheeks, dropping his forehead until it clunks against hers again. "Selfish or not, I am _begging_ you – do not leave me here alone."

He has to take several deep, shuddering breaths before he can get himself even borderline calm enough to continue his assessment… and he _still_ hasn't managed to determine with any surety whether she's alive or dead. He presses his ear to her chest next, listening for a heartbeat, eyes shut, brow furrowed as he focuses, bringing all of his concentration to bear.

It's no more productive than the other tactics he's tried. His own heart is beating too crazily, erratically; it's pounding, _slamming_ against his ribcage in a mad, adrenaline-charged staccato, and… and he _thinks_ he's picking up on something from Jane, but if her heart _is_ beating he can't separate it from his own, and…

If only there were a way that his could beat for both of them.

Hell, if it could just beat for _her_ that would be enough; he'd make that sacrifice without a second's hesitation.

But that's not the way this works, and now he has a decision to make.

Without actually _knowing_ , he has to determine how to proceed… as if she's alive, or as if she's dead.

Although come right down to it, there's not much of a decision there after all. In the absence of proof either way, he will carry on as if she's alive. Resigning himself to the alternative is unacceptable.

Not an option at all.

So he needs to warm her up.

He stands just long enough to strip off his breeches, then hunkers down beside her again and tugs them, as gently as he can, up over her slim legs. He's biting his _own_ lip now in an attempt to keep himself grounded, because the _bruises_ – dear God, the bruises and the blood and the… it all tells a story that's brutal beyond belief, almost beyond comprehension. He can't let himself think about it or really even _acknowledge_ it, not right now; he has to shelve it for later because…

Because.

Jane is relying on him to be as calm and collected as he can manage to be. If there's to be any hope of saving her, he has to be methodical. He has to – well, it's a fine line. He has to abandon rationality to the point where he can convince himself that she _can_ be saved – because logic says otherwise right now. But he also has to _retain_ just enough rationality, enough _clarity_ , to think his way through what needs to be done next.

And dwelling on the physical evidence of her ordeal would not be conducive to that.

So he covers it up. He covers _her_ up. And pauses, calculating what course of action to take now.

The best way to warm her – (to warm _both_ of them because now, divested of all clothing except for his undergarments, which offer scant protection against the chill of this place, _his_ teeth are rattling from the cold) – would be to engineer as much skin-to-skin contact as he possibly can.

With a muttered apology to her modesty – she's been violated _enough_ , God _damn_ it, but it's necessary – he seizes the collar of the shirt, _his_ shirt which currently encases _her_ body, and rips.

He tears it open right down the center and then goes stock-still, sucker-punched all over again by the fresh horrors this action reveals.

"Oh, no," he says, inflectionless, his voice almost dead. _They hurt my ribs_ , she'd told him, and _Christ_ , she hadn't been lying. The bruising is… extensive. He's not sure how many more of these blows he can sustain, and keep functioning in any capacity at all. "Jane…"

Swallowing hard, he skates his fingers lightly along the edge of the bruising, then presses his palms gently down over the discolored area, exerting just the slightest amount of pressure, trying to determine whether there's actual breakage.

After a moment's examination he doesn't think so… but he'd bet a fair coin that there's cracking, and to more than just one bone, at that.

Had this happened during the struggle? Or was this what what they'd done to her when she'd cried out?

He's lightheaded with rage. _Queasy_ with it. He fights it back. He won't throw up, he won't.

It takes him a minute to collect himself enough to even remember why he'd ripped the shirt in the first place. He's too arrested by these new injuries he's just uncovered, trying – without much success – to process them.

It goes beyond even the damage to her ribcage; _more_ finger-shaped bruises mar her shoulders; circle the base of her throat like some ghastly necklace. God, they'd had their filthy fucking hands _everywhere_ , and not just their hands either, are those... _bite_ marks...? _How_ had she not screamed the _entire time?_ He wonders briefly how badly damaged her _arms_ must be, inside the sleeves of his shirt. Surely that's where they would have exerted the most pressure, to hold her down, to keep her still. It's… he can't…

"Jane," he says again, and it comes out as a groan.

Then he's gathering her to him, because that was the whole point, he belatedly remembers; that was why he'd torn the shirt open to begin with. So he can press her against himself, no barrier of clothing between them, from the waist up, at any rate; just his skin to hers and maybe… just maybe…

He pulls her into his arms and it's difficult, trying to position her against himself when she's so totally, heart-achingly _limp_ … he remembers Pepper sewing a ragdoll while she was pregnant and that, more than anything, is what Jane reminds him of in this moment. That's how… how _floppy_ she is, how unresisting, how…

Absent.

A life-sized ragdoll of his partner... his childhood rival... the eternal thorn in his side... the woman he loves.

"You _ARE_ alive," he tells her desperately, as if by willing it hard enough, by vocalizing it, by launching those words out into the universe, he can _make_ it be true. "You are… you are."

It takes a good deal of maneuvering, but he manages to tug her over to the corner; the one his mind has dubbed as _theirs_. It feels safer there somehow, and familiar, and the horrendous, the _appalling_ inaccuracy of those feelings is not lost on him, but he pushes such thoughts away because he _needs_ a corner so he can prop himself up.

He settles himself with his back against the place where the two walls join, and pulls Jane into his lap. It's awkward and her body lists dangerously with each movement, but he draws her legs up as best he can, noting with some relief that her feet are entirely hidden within the folds of his trousers, which are much too long for her. He's glad they're not exposed to the cold air, the cold stone. So much precious body heat can be lost through bare feet.

He then angles her in his arms so that her chest is pressed against his own, her head a solid weight against his shoulder, and tucks the ragged edges of the ripped shirt around them both. It seems like a position he can maintain for some time, and he thinks – he _hopes_ – that he can warm her this way. That maybe, after a little while, she'll recover some of her own heat and ( _please Jane oh please_ ) they can warm each _other._

Burrowing his arms between the fabric and her skin, he wraps her in a tight embrace, hands splayed out over her back; one down by her waist, the other across her shoulder blades. He starts rubbing her in absent circles, creating friction, trying to generate a little bit of additional heat. "Jane," he murmurs, "enough now. You have _more_ than repaid me for the time I lodged that arrow in my armor, made you think... I had been shot... I am... so sorry I scared you that way. It was stupid and thoughtless and not a bit funny. It was... _cruel_... I did not realize then, but... that slap was wholly justified, I understand now, I do. So you can open your eyes. _Jane_ –" his arms tighten around her even further, before he remembers the state of her ribs and forces himself, with a concerted effort, to ease off. It's hard because he just wants to press her closer and _closer_ and –

He shifts her a bit, struggling slightly with her weight. He's either going to cramp up or go numb at some point; he hopes for numb. "A little help… here… Jane… would be appreciated," he grits out. "All your high… talk about… part...nership and… each pulling our weight… teamwork... and res...ponsibility. I cannot help but notice that right at the moment you… are sticking me with _all_ the work." He pauses, breathing hard, then buries his face in her hair before continuing. "I do not appreciate it at all, and Jane… for God's _sake_ – wake up. I _need_ you to _wake UP!_ "

She does not wake up.


	11. Chapter 11: Scream

**SCREAM**

* * *

Time passes. Gunther has no true concept of how much. He drifts in and out of awareness for a while, falling back into himself with a jolt when Jane –

 _Moves? Did she move!?_

Shifts in his arms, starting to slide floorward. It's probably just the combination of gravity and his own relaxing grip. But he wants so _badly_ to believe there is more to it than that. He readjusts her, carefully, pulling her more tightly against himself and checking that her hands are still tucked fully into the overlong sleeves of his shirt, that her feet are still encased within the legs of his breeches.

All is as it should b–

Well, no. Nothing is as it should be, _nothing._ But her extremities are still covered up, at least. He pulls one of his own hands out of the shirt long enough to tilt her face toward his, searching for any sign of returning consciousness.

Her face remains as pale, as still, as… _empty_ , as it had been when he'd folded her into his arms. And yet… is he imagining it, or are her lips just ever so slightly less blue? Is he seeing something that's there, an authentic change, or is he just seeing what he _wants_ to see? The light is so dim, so unreliable here, and he can't tell. He can't _tell_ , and it's maddening.

"Jane," he says desperately, and he can _sense_ the imminent departure of his remaining sanity, can hear it in his cracked voice, his feverish, nonsensical words. "It is time to get up, I mean it. This is not like you, lying about all day. We have too much to _do_ , we… we –" he breaks off and impulsively kisses the tip of her nose. So cold. It's _so cold_. "You have always been insufferable in the mornings, so _god_ damn chipper, there were times I wanted to…"

He pauses, juggles her up a little higher in his arms so that her head is tucked under his chin. "Jane, do you remember when… do you… that time when, when we…" He lapses into silence again. It's no good. He's too scattered. And reminiscing about the past is proving _far_ too painful at the moment. "You know what?" he says, a few endless minutes later. "I think I would rather talk about tomorrow. Remember Jane, that time when you _woke up?_ And I was almost mad with fear because I was starting to think that you were not going to… _ever_ … but then you opened your eyes and it was the most beautiful sight that _my_ eyes had ever seen? And we walked out of this hell hole together, and you grabbed that torch from the wall and burned this place straight to the ground? Just walked through the halls, touching your flame to everything we passed – the lintels, the tapestries, the furniture, even that pair of boots sitting by the door. And when we got outside into the fresh air, you never even looked back until the flames licked the sky and the smoke blotted out the horizon. Do you remember?"

Without even being aware of it, he begins to rock her very gently as he continues to talk. "Do you remember when we got home, and everything was exactly as we had left it? The fighting never reached the castle – it never even got close – it was just like you said, everyone was safe and… and _happy_ , and… hell, Jane, I admit it, I did not believe you when you said it, but you were right. More fool me because really, you almost always _are_ … about the things that actually matter, anyway. And we ate so much of Pepper's cooking that we made ourselves sick; neither one of us could get out of bed in the morning!"

Warmth on his cheeks. He's crying again. He doesn't mind; the warmth is welcome. He only wishes there was a way he could impart some of it to Jane. "And, do you remember that time when you took my hand and made me your husband? The day we got married beneath that tree by the lake? The one that always produces spring blossoms weeks before the rest? You had some of them woven into your hair. And when it was my turn to speak our vows, I could not because my throat was so tight, and everyone laughed as I tried to squeak them out? But you did not care, you just smiled and said them with me, and when we kissed I forgot there were other people watching and it was just you, and me, warm under the spring sun… remember, Jane? Because I do. You tend not to forget the most perfect moment of your life." He stops, struggling for composure; tips his head briefly back against the wall and sighs.

 _And so does Jane_.

Or at least – heart suddenly pounding triple-time – he _thinks_ she does.

"Jane. _Jane!?_ "

Nose to nose again, staring, inwardly cursing the dim light, straining to see. Is there any improvement to her complexion, any fluttering of her eyelids, any obvious respiration, any clear difference at _all?_ But so far as he can make out in the admittedly less than ideal circumstances, there is not. Her face remains as still and pale and lifeless as wax; her eyes sunk in bluish hollows, lashes casting dusky shadows over her ashen cheeks.

It's almost more than he can bear, to have his hopes raised that way, only to be brought low once more.

"Again, Jane," he croaks. "Do that _again_."

She does nothing. Nothing but lie there, inert in his arms.

And he can't take this anymore. He can't.

Frustration flares within him. And he knows it's irrational, he does. But that doesn't make it any less real. Why is she _being_ this way!?

" _Enough_ , Jane! This is getting ridiculous. It is time to get up. Now. _Now_ , I said!" He actually gives her a little shake, then taps her cheek almost hard enough to be a light slap. "Jane! You are going to make us miss breakfast at this rate. And we have not sparred in _weeks_. Hell, we have not even argued. I need you to argue with me. I need you to… yell at me for besting you at staves, call me a cheat, or... or tell me off for sneaking biscuits from your rations. I need you to call me a stubborn, two-assed donkey. I am sorry I laughed so hard when you said that. You were already angry and I _knew_ I was making it worse. Give… give me another chance… God Jane, please. I need you to say something, _anything!_ I need you –" he chokes off, unable to continue for a moment. "I need YOU."

But she isn't there, Not in any way that actually matters. His frustration blooms into anger.

" ** _JANE!_** " He shifts himself so that he's leaning back more fully against the wall, yanks her in and up, hard against him. She's almost lying on his chest now, her head clunking against his collarbone. Is she very slightly warmer against his skin, or is it just that _his_ body is acclimating to the cold? "What more do you _want from me!?_ " he demands in anguish. "I have learned my lesson, Jane, I swear it! I will never take you for granted _again_ , not for a day, not for a minute. Jane… Jane... I _apologize_ , all right? I am so sorry, so _heartily sorry_. Sorry for every spiteful thing I have said, every less than honorable thing I have done. Sorry for being too much of a sarding coward to ever tell you how I felt, how _much_ you mean to me. Sorry for every way in which I have failed you, sorry for… for failing you _now_ … so come back. Come _back_. I promise… to do better… if you will just, just… just…" _He's_ the one edging toward hyperventilation now.

"Goddamnit, Jane, stop playing and GET _UP!_ "

He goes still for a moment, panting, bringing all of his senses to bear, trying to discern any reaction at all. But there's nothing, there's _nothing_ and oh dear God, he's lost his mind completely, he's shouting at a cor–

 ** _NO_** _. NO NO NO a thousand times no_. How could he even _think_ such a thing!? How could he betray her like that? She's not dead, she is _not dead_ , and he swore he wouldn't give up on her. And yet, just now, he nearly had. No _wonder_ she is punishing him, no wonder she's… _leaving_ … him…

Pushed finally and completely past the last frayed edges of his ability to cope, Gunther drops his face into her shoulder and screams. And screams. And screams.


	12. Chapter 12: Rescue

**RESCUE**

* * *

Gunther screams against his loss with every part of his being. These cries are not simply born of his throat, of his breath and voice; he is screaming with his entire body, with every hair on his head, with every organ, with every appendage, with every bone, his very marrow.

With his broken mind, with his shattered soul, he screams.

It seems to him that the force and fury of his grief is shaking the earth itself… as if the very walls of his prison are rattling with it. And it also seems to him, somewhat distantly, because coherent thought is a far-off realm at this point, that that is as it should be. If Jane is really lost, if she is… irrevocably… _gone_ , that _is_ a catastrophe that should rock the very ground. He actually finds a vague, fleeting sense of satisfaction in the idea.

It goes on, though. And on. Dust starts sifting down, and what… what is…? He takes a series of gulping, sobbing breaths, trying to figure out what is happening to him, _around_ him. Has he been hitting his head on the wall again? Hard enough to knock loose these little showers of stonedust and debris? Could he accomplish such a feat and still be _conscious?_ He doesn't… _think_ so…

Another tremor hits, more powerful than any before, and… and this is _not_ something that's emanating outward from Gunther himself; the ground is _actually shaking,_ the fortress _around_ him is shaking, and now that he's fallen silent again he can hear – he can hear –

"Dragon?" he croaks, bewildered.

Can it be true?

...It is.

Dragon is outside, making the entire structure quake with the force of his attack. And the screaming that Gunther had been hearing had _not_ been his own maddened cries of sorrow - or at least, not _only_ that. No, the wild rushing and roaring in his ears isn't the sound of his sanity cracking – wooshing away – but rather the sound of Dragon's wings and the roar of his fire as he shrieks his wrath at Jane and Gunther's captors.

And now Gunther is slowly becoming aware that there are other cries too; presumably the last pleas for mercy before Dragon or his compatriots – _Gunther can hear the clank and clash of swordplay, can he not?_ – cut down the people occupying the fortress.

He sits up straighter, tightening his grip on Jane when she starts to slide downward in his arms. He's utterly dazed, still trying to wrap his mind around what's happening, when his cell lights up with a terrible, fearsome brilliance – brighter than the brightest noonday. One of Dragon's mighty gouts of flame must have hit close – _perilously_ close – to Gunther's little window, and when the light fades again he's grateful. Grateful because that level of radiance would have hurt his eyes even under ordinary circumstances and _now_ , having been without any but the faintest, most diffuse light for – _a week, have we been here a_ week? – it feels like shards of glass have been driven into his skull.

Grateful because that brief illumination had shown him things he really would rather not have seen. Such as how tiny, filthy and miserable this little cell really _is_ – such as the smears of blood on the floor where Jane had lain while he'd conducted his frantic, and _useless_ , examination – such as how devastatingly lifeless she actually _looks_ , cradled in his arms.

And grateful because it means that Dragon is going to burn this wretched place to cinders. Burn it until there is _nothing left_. Gunther hopes the ground itself will be blighted until the end of time. Nothing should ever grow or thrive here _again_ , not after… not after…

He wraps his arms around Jane more tightly still.

Then the last of that spectacular sunburst vanishes, along with the sudden and intense heat that had accompanied it – ( _Gunther realizes that he'd forgotten what it_ felt _like to be warm, let alone_ over _warm_ ) – but the _noise_ , the noise that Dragon is making does not.

It is actually getting louder, the building shaking harder, dislodging more stonedust and even, now, little bits of rubble. It sounds as if Dragon is _directly_ above him, maybe climbing along the battlements, pounding at the walls. And actual pieces of rock start to fall next – no larger than pebbles at first, but then a chunk of stone hits Gunther's shoulder, and it's sizable enough to legitimately _hurt_ , and – and – and what if it had hit _Jane_ instead of him?

Horrorstruck, Gunther starts shouting in an effort to attract Dragon's attention – but even as he does so, he's aware that it's pointless. It's no good; Dragon will _never_ hear him over the ruckus that Dragon himself is creating.

He curls himself protectively around Jane, shielding her with this body, and the noise is overwhelming, so it takes him a moment or two to realize that it's not _all_ coming from outside the building – there's noise in the hallway as well.

Quite a bit of noise, actually; shouts of anger, cries of agony; the clash of swords, and the resounding _bam_ – _bam_ – ** _bam_** of one door after another after _another_ being thrown open, all down the corridor. And then –

And then his own door slams open and he's torn; should he curl in around Jane more tightly still, protecting her? Or should he go on the offensive, put her behind himself and attempt to mount an attack instead? His thought processes have become so grindingly, agonizingly _slow_.

But before he can galvanize his exhausted, traumatized mind into making a decision, he realizes that the figure now standing in his doorway, silhouetted by torchlight from the hall, one sword held at the ready and another sword, _Jane's_ sword, clutched in his left hand – is _familiar._ It's one of the knights from his company. This is someone he _knows_ , has fought beside; someone he trusts, considers a friend.

This is rescue.

 _Rescue_.

He tries to process it; he can't.

The man crosses the room in a few long strides and drops to one knee beside him. "Gunther?" His voice is hesitant, unsure. Dragon has moved away now, on down the side of the building, or he wouldn't be able to hear him at all. "Gunther, is that you?"

Good God, is he actually that unrecognizable? Is he so filthy, his expression so twisted by his pain and grief, that despite their shared history as comrades in arms – a history that spans nearly half a decade at this point – his friend can't even tell with certainty who he _is?_

He attempts to croak out an answer, but his rescuer ( _Robert, Gunther's mind supplies haltingly, his name is Robert_ ) isn't listening at this point; he's just realized what it is – _who_ it is – that's bundled in Gunther's arms.

"Is – _Jesus_ , Gunther, is that Jane? Oh, no. Oh, sweet bleeding Christ. I am so sorry. So _sorry,_ Gunther. We tried to get here –" he chokes off for a moment, unable to continue, his face a picture of incredulous dismay.

Gunther says nothing. He still hasn't entirely come to terms with the fact that this is happening. That his cell is standing open, that _his people_ are here, that they're safe now. They're finally safe.

And it's _meaningless._ What's the point? What in _God's name_ is the point of being rescued _now?_ Now, when the damage is _done,_ now when Jane is… Jane is…

He's rocking her again, he realizes. He doesn't remember when he started back up. He drops his face back into her tangled, dirty, _bloodied_ hair, and tries to suppress a sob. Feels a hand gently clasp his shoulder. It's startlingly, almost _impossibly_ warm against his chilled skin.

"I am so… _so_ sorry we did not make it in time," Robert says, his voice hoarse and constricted; it sounds as if he might be on the verge of tears _himself_. Well, why not? They are _all_ close, the knights in his company. They are bonded through sweat and blood, through training together and marching together, sharing rations and making camp and standing watch together, drinking and singing and fighting together. And Jane is a part of that.

Jane is well loved, and not just by him. Of _course_ she is. What's not to love? Jane is… Jane is extraordinary.

"Let me take her for a moment, get you out of here," the other man is continuing. Letting go of Gunther, he reaches for Jane, making as if to slip his arms around her shoulders, beneath her knees. Intending to lift her away from Gunther, relieve him of his burden.

" _NO!_ "

Gunther jerks backward. There's really no place for him to go; he's already _in_ the corner, but he wedges himself down more tightly still, now positively _crushing_ Jane to his chest.

Robert hesitates, but does not draw back. "Gunther, just until we get outside. Let me _help_ y–"

Gunther growls at him. Actually _growls_ at him, like a trapped animal; a low, grating rumble emanating from somewhere deep in his throat. At this, the other knight _does_ back off; he stands and turns, addressing two more of their compatriots, who are guarding the cell door, swords drawn, expressions grim. "Find Sir Ivon," he says, "and bring him here. _Fast._ "

They've barely taken a step, though, when the walls shudder again – harder than ever this time. An undeniable smell of smoke is filtering into the room, and Gunther, his head snapping up once more at the advent of this new and alarming series of tremors, can see that the hallway outside his door looks hazy. Dragon's fires have taken hold. The fortress is burning.

It is probably only a matter of minutes – minutes at _most_ – before they are overwhelmed by the smoke and flames.

Robert drops down to Gunther's level once more. "Gunther –" he rakes a hand anxiously through his sand-colored hair, "you do not want Jane to burn in here, surely? You want to take her _home_ , lay her to rest in the soil she loved, that she fought so hard to defend… right?"

What little air had been left in Gunther's lungs is expelled in a sick sort of reverse gasp. "She is not dead," he rasps out, barely audible.

Robert scrubs a hand hard down his face, from forehead to chin, looks at Gunther sadly for a moment, then draws an unsteady breath. "Gunth–"

"She is **_NOT DEAD!_** " he screams, his voice breaking. The force of his denial, his frantic negation, threatens to literally rock him backward, but for the support of the wall behind him. "She is _not_. She is just… _sleeping_ , she…" he swallows thickly. "They… Rob, they took her _clothes_ – I have to keep her warm."

"All right, Gunther. All right." His friend nods in agreement – though even in his deranged state, Gunther understands that he is being placated. The other man doesn't believe him.

Deep in his heart of hearts, Gunther no longer quite believes himself.

"We have blankets outside," Robert continues. "And we can start a fire, warm her up there –" he has to break off for a moment; he's starting to cough from the increasingly heavy smoke – "but if we stay here, Gunther, we cannot get her any blankets." He sounds as if he is talking to a child...

Or a madman.

Perhaps he is.

But his words do manage, finally, to galvanize Gunther into action.

All this time he's been holding Jane pressed against him, directly skin-to-skin. Now he lowers her away from himself and gently, carefully, tucks the ripped edges of his shirt around her, wrapping her up, preserving her modesty as best he can under the circumstances. These men are Jane's compatriots too – the whole company is close, the whole company is loyal. But they don't need to see, to see...

Although the expression of horrified, of _sickened_ , outrage on Robert's face suggests that _he_ , at least, has seen already.

Then he's gathering her up and rising to his feet, and his legs are still halfway asleep, halfway or _more_ , and he stumbles against the wall and almost falls… but when Robert reaches, again, for Jane, he shakes his head with grim finality.

He hadn't been able to prevent her capture. He hadn't been able to protect her when it actually mattered. He hasn't been able to revive her _since_. But he is _goddamn_ well going to be the one to carry her out of this place. He is _not_ going to just… hand her off like so much baggage.

Never. _Never in life_.

He refuses to let her down yet again.

So he grits his teeth and brings every bit of his will to bear, forcing his uncooperative legs to first support their combined weight, and then to _move_ – and he carries her out of the cell, down the corridor, up a twisting flight of stairs, and through the burning fortress.


	13. Chapter 13: Sliver

**SLIVER**

* * *

The smoke stings his eyes and scrapes at his lungs with every harsh, labored breath he drags in, but as they race toward the exit - two men in front and Robert, still holding Jane's sword, bringing up the rear – Gunther can't help but notice a rather strange thing.

The scene playing out around him… it's hauntingly _familiar_.

It's just like in the story he'd told Jane, the memory that wasn't a memory… how long ago had that been? Only hours? Maybe even less. It feels as if ten lifetimes have passed since then. Still, he remembers it clearly, the picture he'd painted for her with his words – and is astonished to see it all coming to pass before his eyes with eerie, unsettling accuracy.

The tapestries are alight, the furniture, the rushes… he even sees, in passing, a burning cloak fall off its peg onto a pair of boots below. It's surreal, _dreamlike_ , to watch his imaginings brought to life in such a way. There's just one problem, though. One single, but very sizable, problem.

He actually glances to the side for a second, almost expecting to see her there, torch in hand, keeping pace with him… before remembering that no, she's not there, of _course_ not. She's hanging, pale and cold and lifeless, in his arms.

"You were supposed to be walking next to me," he tells her, and his own voice sounds impossibly far-off to him; echoey and unreal. His tone is flat, affectless, almost dead. "You were the one who was meant to light those fires, Jane."

They are crossing a cavernous space that appears to be the building's main hall, in sight of the exit, when Gunther hears –

 _(we mighta been great friends, the two of us)_

– something that brings him up short. It's a voice he recognizes, a voice he _knows_ –

 _(hold her_ still _, now)_

– and it causes the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up –

 _(sweet dreams, little girl_ _)_

– causes his lips to pull back from his teeth in an animalistic snarl. Suddenly _panting_ with rage despite the fact that the air in here is barely breathable anymore, he looks wildly around for the source of that voice, his eyes alight with the force of his wrath, his all-consuming fury.

He is _incandescent_ with it, burning as brightly as anything around him in this blazing inferno.

And... _THERE._

The man is being held at swordpoint by another member of Gunther's company, not far from the exit – apparently having been intercepted whilst trying to escape, and forced back from the door. He's alternately wheedling and cursing; lank, greasy hair hanging in his eyes, arms outspread to show that he's weaponless. One side of his face is _purple_ , his nose at a slight cant and his eye swollen almost shut from where Jane hit him with her water jug. He's coughing and sniveling, pleading his case.

Gunther has never felt such raw, seething hatred in his life. He's _dizzy_ with it, the room suddenly swimming before his eyes, the ground lurching beneath his feet.

The knight who has apprehended this – this piece of human _filth_ – is ordering him to turn around and face the wall; place his hands flat against it, in clear view. But he's not going to do him actual harm; the members of Gunther's company don't kill without cause, and they _certainly_ don't kill unarmed men who are begging for their lives.

Ironically enough (but not _at all_ surprisingly), _no_ one is a more dedicated champion of this policy than Jane.

The intent, most likely, is to check him for concealed weapons, bind him, and take him prisoner.

Then two things happen at once.

The man, perhaps feeling the weight of Gunther's stare, suddenly meets his eyes across the intervening space. Gunther watches the play of emotions across his face; blank non-recognition, followed by dawning comprehension – _(his eyes flicker down to take in Jane's limp form before rising, more slowly, back to Gunther's own)_ – and then total, abject terror.

At the same time Robert, who has been bringing up the rear of their little party, actually knocks _into_ Gunther, who has stopped in his tracks. "Gunther –" his friend's voice is hoarse from the smoke, and urgent nearly to the point of being frantic – "we have to _g_ –"

But he stops mid-sentence when he registers the _expression_ on Gunther's face. His eyes follow the line of Gunther's gaze, and then he clasps Gunther's shoulder again, just as he had back in the cell.

"That one?" he asks quietly.

Beyond words at this point, Gunther gives a single, jerky nod.

No further communication passes between them. No further communication _needs_ to. An instant later Robert is crossing the room with terrible, grim purpose - and it _kills_ Gunther that he can't be the one to do this, but that would entail letting go of Jane, which is not an option. At all.

So he has to resign himself to simply watching.

Their compatriot sees Rob coming, eyes widening in surprise at the expression on his face. Then he glances at Gunther... does a double-take... stares horror-struck at _Jane_ , makes the connection – Gunther _sees_ it click in his mind – and steps back to let justice take its course.

Jane's attacker is now positively cowering against the wall. It's difficult to tell for sure - it could just be the smoke – but it appears as if he's started to _cry_. Gunther can't hear what he says to Robert, his quivering, last-ditch pleas, but _Rob's_ voice, when he answers, carries clearly across to Gunther's ears – doubtless just as intended.

"My friend Jane would probably counsel mercy, or at the _very_ least… due process. She has more integrity than anyone else I have ever met. Unfortunately for you, however, she is unable to plead your case at present." And he drives not his own sword, but _Jane's_ , through the man's stomach with enough force to skewer him, briefly, to the wall.

It's a lethal wound, but not one that will kill quickly. It will be a lingering, _excruciating_ death; perhaps he'll even live long enough to be consumed by the flames, burned alive.

As the impaled man lets loose a gibbering howl of agony, Robert _twists_ the blade with a vicious wrench of his wrist, before yanking it free again. And as the man clamps his hands to his stomach in a desperate – though entirely futile – attempt to staunch the sudden gout of blood, and begins sliding down the wall, leaving a streak of gore on the stones behind him, Rob strikes once more; targeting, this time, a point slightly lower on the dying man's frame.

A sobbing, wavering _shriek_ rends the air.

He's not the only one who… who had… _hurt_ Jane. And so this isn't enough justice, it's not even _close_ \- but it will suffice. It will, because it has to. Under the current circumstances, Gunther has no means of identifying her other attackers; he'll just have to hope that they have been, or will be, killed in the fighting.

And so he's seen, and heard, enough. Adjusting Jane in his arms, he makes for the exit, carrying her out into the daylight. They're free.

They're _free_.

But there's no joy in it, no relief. How can there be? Jane is _broken_. And Gunther, Gunther is simply… numb.

The day is overcast, with low, heavy clouds filtering the sunlight – but it's still nearly more than Gunther can take. He has to squint against even this grey, diffuse light after almost a week spent in near total darkness. Skirting bodies, debris, and still-smoking patches of scorched earth, he carries Jane several paces away from the building. Dragon is nowhere to be seen, although Gunther can hear him still roaring his vengeance on the other side of the now partially-crumbled walls.

When he feels he's gotten her a safe distance away he stops, and simply… stands there, holding her, at a loss for what to do next. All of his purpose, all of his… _direction_ … has abandoned him, because the focus of every last bit of it had been to try and save Jane, and he's failed.

He's failed.

Any last lingering shreds of hope have abandoned him. Jane is _going_ … if she isn't already gone.

He gives a shuddery gasp of dismay; then, without any conscious intent at all, without really even _realizing_ it, he starts to sing to her again, his voice little more than a raw, choked whisper.

He's still singing a moment later when a warm, heavy weight settles over his shoulders; Robert has come up from behind and wrapped a blanket around him. Startled, Gunther jumps a little –

And _Jane moves against him_ ; a small, corresponding twitch in his arms.

Gunther's breath catches, his heart suddenly racing… but no. She's slipping again, that's all it is, slipping slower in his grip. His arms are giving out; he's so tired, _so tired_.

"Gunther," Robert says, still right beside him, "if you will give her to me for just five min–"

But Gunther shakes his head. No. _No_. Give her away? He'd rather hack off and give away one of his own limbs. He's not letting go of Jane.

No.

He tries to pull her back up, redistribute her weight, settle her higher against him. But he hasn't eaten anything or drunk anything or even really slept in… well. A while. It's a losing proposition. His arms are going watery.

It's a bad idea to sink down with her – he knows it is. This is still an active battlefield and they will both be extremely vulnerable on the ground; he'll be unable to scoop her up and escape quickly enough should sudden danger threaten. But such a concept seems distant and unimportant to him now. Jane has passed beyond any need of his protection at this point. The worst has happened already. And if she truly _is_ lost to him, then he couldn't care less whether he lives or dies. So he _does_ sink down with her, cradling her in his lap again.

Robert hunkers down across from him. He has a second blanket in his hands, and he tucks it gently around Jane, then reaches out as if to brush her hair from her face. He draws his hand back though, looking almost afraid to touch her, his face twisted with grief.

"Just… stay put, all right?" he says. "I am going to find Sir Ivon, and get more blankets too. I will be back as… as soon as I can." He lays Jane's sword down beside Gunther, then stands and heads back toward the fray.

Swallowing hard, Gunther does what Rob had not, and pushes the spill of coppery hair out of Jane's face, tucking it behind her ears with shaking fingers. She is, thanks to Dragon's rampage, filthier than ever; coated in a liberal layer of stonedust and ash.

And for the second time since getting her outside, Gunther's heart leaps – because her face is streaked, _clearly streaked_ , with tear tracks. They cut sharply through the dust that clings to her skin.

And _corpses don't cry_.

No, not at all.

" _Jane!?_ " His voice is an awful, unrecognizable caw. "They came, Jane. They found us. Dragon is here, you are safe now, please do not cry. Jane..."

He traces one of the streaks with the calloused pad of his thumb, smudging it as he strokes her skin, marveling at how even _now_ , dirty, broken, and statue-still, she can be so beautiful, so _achingly_ …

"Perfect," he whispers. "You _are_. I swear it, Jane. I swear."

There's no response, but those little streaks on her face, they're _fresh_ , and surely that means… surely that means…

And that horrid bluish tint her lips had taken on, is that gone too? Gone, or at least… much reduced?

He bends more fully over her – then jerks back in perplexity as two _new_ streaks appear on her face. But they're not from Jane, he'd been watching her closely, so _closely_ , and she hadn't… what… what is…?

Then understanding clicks and his despair is complete.

Jane isn't crying, _he_ is, his tears splashing down on her cheeks. He's creating those tracks, and he hadn't even realized he'd started to weep again. And his fanciful notion about her lips… doubtless it's just wishful thinking. They're as covered with dust as the rest of her, that's all.

That's all.

Oh, Jane.

He's studying her face, still gently rubbing the dirt away, trying to make out her familiar smattering of freckles beneath all the grit and grime. He needs to commit her to memory now, he understands this. He needs to map her features to the best of his ability, tuck them away in some safe, deep place… he needs to ensure that later... that later... he can _see_ her... even when he can't. Through all the days and weeks and months and years, the empty, aching wasteland of a life that's stretching out before him.

Because when Rob comes back, when the others make their way over, they're going to take her away from him.

Well.

They're going to try.

The thing is, though, all false bravado aside, he knows that if enough of them gang up on him, they will succeed. He's too weary, too beaten, too utterly and profoundly… _empty_... to be able to mount much of a defense.

So they're going to take her away from him, they're going to be convinced it's for the best because she's –

 _(no, she is not, she cannot be, no please no)_

– DEAD, she's dead, and they will disregard his protests, write him off as being crazed with grief, and they _won't be wrong._ This is it, it's over, it… Jane...

Absently playing with her hair, wrapping one of her curls around and around his finger, he thinks that he should snip a lock of it to keep. He should do it now, before… before they…

 _JANE_...

What is there left to tell her? What does he need to say? Because this is the time to say it. His window of opportunity is closing quickly now, he can feel it.

In the end – _at_ the end – the very, bitter end – it's pretty simple, really.

"I love you, Jane," he gasps. "I _love_ you, and I am so... _so_ sorry I could not –" (he chokes on the words) – "save you. Or even be the one to kill them for you. But I will take you home. I will take you home, and... I love you. I love you. I love you."

He presses a kiss to her forehead and then covers his face with his hand, the one not wrapped around her shoulders, supporting her.

And cries slow, hot, quiet, _awful_ tears.

* * *

What is he going to say to Sir Ivon when Rob brings him over? God in heaven, what is he going to say to Dragon!? How is he supposed to face her _parents_ when he brings her back to them in a… in… in a – wh…

...wh... _what?_

He scrubs his palm across his wet, reddened eyes. Strange… but for a second there, it had almost felt as if…

 _Yes._

Again. There it is again.

But he can't be feeling what he thinks he's feeling… it's not possible.

It's _not_ , it's only some final, desperate attempt at self-delusion produced by his own tortured mind, and so he really wishes she would just _stop_ it already.

It's distracting.

It's making it difficult to focus properly on grieving.

He takes a juddering, tear-choked breath, and –

She moves again, not behaving at _all_ as a dead person should.

Even in circumstances as extreme as these, she is apparently incapable of being proper, of observing even the most basic societal norms.

Her mother would _despair_.

Caught between exasperation ( _why must she make_ everything _more difficult, even this, even_ this!?) and endearment ( _her flat refusal to be defined by convention is at the very core of his love for her, after all_ ) – Gunther opens his eyes.

They're so blurred with tears he can hardly make out a thing, so he almost dismisses the next shuddery little movement as a trick of his faulty vision… except that he can _feel_ it too, can feel her starting to shiver against him, that's why he'd opened his eyes in the _first_ place.

He doesn't _really_ believe it, though, the input that his own senses are giving him. No, far more likely it is simply an indication of his full and final descent into madness.

Although if this is what the irretrievable loss of sanity looks like, he'll take it, and gladly. Because that little crease is back in her forehead; the one he knows and loves so well. Usually it means concentration, although in this case he's pretty sure it means pain… which twists him up inside but still (selfishly, so selfishly) he thinks it is the most astoundingly gorgeous thing he's ever seen.

And then her lips part in a shallow, hitching breath, and he's moving his free hand to cup the side of her face, and –

– _open your eyes. Come back to me. Come back to me. Come back_ –

– he's falling, tumbling over and over - up, down, and sideways, flying apart in a thousand directions at once, sure that he really _has_ lost himself, his fractured mind scattered beyond any hope of repair…

Only to be pressed back together again in the very next heartbeat, by a whispered "... _Gunther?_ "

And a tiny, yet infinite, sliver of green.

* * *

 _/ - - - FIN - - - /_


End file.
